Broken Harmony

by Roz Southey

  “And there is another thing,” Demsey said violently. “His so-called phil –philanthropy towards his apprentice makes me sick.”

  “You cannot condemn a man for his kindness to an injured boy.”

  But Demsey was right. Any sensible man would have sent the boy back to his parents until his broken arm healed and it was seen whether he would play again. Le Sac, however, made pious noises about his duty as a Christian loudly enough for everyone – everyone of consequence, at least – to hear.

  Demsey banged down his ale and roared at the spirits on the other side of the room to be quiet. They did not even hesitate in their rollicking rhythms. “Le Sac – Nichols – they’re both the same. One thing on the surface, another below it. I’m off home. Sleep off this damned ale.”

  A hazy recollection of Demsey’s routine prodded at me. “Don’t you teach in Durham tomorrow? Damn it, Hugh, you will have to be up before dawn to get there.”

  “Sleep on the horse,” he said thickly.

  We parted at the inn door, shivering in the chill night air. I offered to see him to his lodgings, but he shook me off and staggered away, mumbling. I had seen him worse, much worse, yet still get home safely, but I would have been glad to accompany him. I was wide awake and not pleased with my own company. Le Sac’s face kept rising before me; I saw constantly those gleaming eyes and too-knowledgeable smile. Truth to tell, what I really envied him was his facility in composition. Vapid though those rants of his were, with their cascades of notes and meaningless extravagances, they were still ten times better than the pretty tunes I turned out. Which was why I had not set quill to manuscript paper for months.

  In the wider spaces of the Bigg Market, I drew breath and slowed. The bright shining of the moon lit the dark corners and doorways where thieves generally linger, and gleamed on a faint glittering of frost, the first harbinger of winter. I heard the distant call of a drunk and a raucous laugh. My mind was dulled, cut off, curiously detached. I felt despondent; it is unpalatable to know that your dearest wish in life is beyond your capabilities.

  So I wandered I don’t know where until I found myself in Caroline Square, that newly built monument to our beloved Queen. As I stood beneath one of the trees of the central gardens, the elegant facades of the houses seemed to lean mockingly over me, the new white stone gleaming in the moonlight, darkened windows reflecting back the crisp night sky with its speckle of bright stars. Only two of the householders had hung out their lanterns, so the place was nearly dark, although lights flickered behind two or three of the uppermost windows.

  The house directly ahead of me belonged to Lady Anne, Le Sac’s patroness. Lights still showed on the first floor. Perhaps the lady lingered awake after the stimulation of the concert; perhaps she had brought Le Sac back here to bestow on him the honour of a glass of wine and the illusion, for a short while, of being an equal. Le Sac was too intelligent to mistake such patronage for genuine friendship, but he was a businessman and would accept the benefits it brought.

  Approaching the house, I stumbled on a stone and caught at the railings to prevent myself falling. For a moment the world tilted oddly, seemed to blur. Perhaps I was more drunk than I had thought. A sudden chill made me shiver, a deeper darkness suddenly descended. I panicked, grabbed at the railing, found nothing.

  The flickering lantern light returned.

  I was no longer in Caroline Square. I was standing on an ordinary street, hemmed in by houses of the sort wealthy tradesmen or the gentry occupy, old but well-kept for the most part. A few lanterns burned over the doors; raindrops touched softly and damply against my hands.

  The house immediately in front of me was well-lit; lamps hung over the door, candles guttered behind curtains on the upper storeys. From one of the rooms at the front, just behind the railings, bright light fell across the street like a pool of water. I walked forward in a daze and looked through the window. Inside was a scene of revelry; eight or ten ladies and gentlemen sat at a table that was laden with food. Footmen were reaching to remove the soup tureen, replacing it with a platter of fish wrapped in pastry. Guests were laughing; one gentleman was whispering to his pretty young neighbour.

  I looked from one figure to another. A stout, red-faced man of middle age sat at the head of the table; the lady at his right looked very like the wife of the mayor. I shifted to see the other end of the table. There was Lady Anne, in full rig with satins rippling, one ringlet falling across her shoulder, bending to listen to the elderly gentleman on her left.

  I strained my ears but could hear nothing. It was a dumb show in front of me. Perhaps the thickness of the glass muffled the sound. The pretty girl looked straight at me, looked away. She had plainly not seen me.

  Cold was in my bones, like the worst ice of winter. My foot slipped, I pitched forward…

  And found myself once again gripping the railings in Caroline Square.

  The moon was extinguished behind a cloud; huge cold drops of rain slapped against my face. I ran. I am not ashamed to admit it. I ran through the near-deserted streets, ignoring the jibes of drunks and whores, ignoring the dirt and the dark corners, the curious spirits and the excited dogs. I was drunk, yes, I was drunk. I kept repeating that litany to myself – it had all been an ale-induced delusion. What else could it have been?

  By the time I turned into my own street, I was almost calm again.

  And there, at my door, was a posse of people: three or four neighbours, a woman of the streets, and lanky Thomas Bedwalters, the parish constable. And, of course, Le Sac.

  3

  CONCERTO FOR SOLO HARPSICHORD

  Movement II

  I wished them all at the very devil and tried to brush past them to the door. But Bedwalters turned on me a weary gaze.

  “Mr Patterson, sir,” he said. “We have been waiting to see you for some time.”

  Somehow I found myself apologising to him. Bedwalters is the kind of man everyone apologises to. “I trust you are not cold.”

  “No, sir. I had a pint of ale before I came out, expressly for the purpose of fortifying myself against the chill air.”

  “I require my music!” Le Sac cried. “Patterson, return to me my music!”

  He was wrapped in a heavy greatcoat that made him seem squatter than usual and his cheeks were so red that it would have been easy not to take him seriously. Yet, staring at his flushed face, I had the impression that he sincerely believed I had his music.

  My landlady’s spirit gleamed brightly on the door knocker. “I have been explaining to these gentlemen,” Mrs Foxton said, “that I cannot allow them into your room without your permission.”

  Her words caused an outburst from the posse gathered around Bedwalters. Phillips the brewer cried out that women had no business obstructing the law, especially not dead women. Monro the cheesemonger sniffed and said that private concerns must inevitably give way to public matters for the sake of society. Shivering and feeling sick, longing only for my own company, I waited for Bedwalters to restore order.

  “It is, I understand,” he said, “within my powers to request that those persons not directly concerned with this matter should retire to their homes.”

  No one questioned whether it was indeed within his powers. No one ever questioned Bedwalters. I once ventured into the room of his writing school and spied two very small scholars laboriously but industriously inscribing letters in fearful silence; in equal silence, the neighbours withdrew, putting on an air of dignity that suggested they followed Bedwalters’s instructions only because they chose to. Only the street-walker remained; she closed up behind Bedwalters, setting her head against the back of his shoulder and stroking his arm.

  “I must regain my music,” Le Sac said. “I will regain it.”

  “Mr Patterson,” Bedwalters began again, apparently oblivious to the street girl. “It is my understanding that you were present when certain books of music were abstracted from the Long Room in Hoult’s tonight.”

  “I was present when
their loss was announced,” I said carefully. I was still trembling. I made an effort to be calm and pay attention to the matter in hand.

  “I trust you are examining the rooms of everyone so present,” Mrs Foxton said sharply.

  “If it is necessary, I will,” Bedwalters agreed.

  Silence. Bedwalters regarded the doorknocker steadfastly; Le Sac glared at me. The street walker traced imaginary patterns on Bedwalters’ shoulder.

  “I believe it is your decision, Mr Patterson,” said Mrs Foxton. “Will you let them up?”

  “Oh – yes, certainly.” No other course of action seemed possible. After all, what harm could it do? The book of music was not in my room. The sooner they looked, the sooner they would be gone and leave me to my aching head.

  Mrs Foxton swung the door open. We all trooped in, Le Sac treading upon my heels and the girl entwining herself with Bedwalters. (Did Mrs Bedwalters know of the girl, I wondered?) The hallway was dark and empty; when Mrs Foxton swung the door shut again, we were in blackness like a coalpit.

  Bedwalters’s voice floated out of the darkness. “Are there no other tenants in the house?”

  “Miners,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said. (The irregularity of such men’s lives is known to all.)

  “This is a reputable house,” Mrs Foxton snapped. “And will be as long as I own it.”

  “Dead persons can own nothing!” Le Sac scoffed.

  A light flared in the darkness. The street girl held up a candle and slipped a tinder box back into the recesses of her clothing. Bedwalters was blinking. Mrs Foxton lay like condensation across the glass of a picture on the stairway. “Until my heir is discovered, this house is mine,” she said firmly.

  Mrs Foxton’s ‘heir’ – a brother of a pious bent – sailed for Philadelphia some years before his sister’s death and has not yet been made aware of that event. I explained as much to Bedwalters, glad to have something to distract my mind, although I made no mention of the popular belief that the brother is long dead without issue. Mrs Foxton had once, in a rare incautious moment, referred to the fever that was prevalent on board ships bound for the colonies. She was a shrewd woman and had no doubt always intended to retain possession of her own affairs, both before and after death.

  We climbed the stairs, the street girl leading the way with her hand cupped about the candle to protect the flame. A thin grey twist of smoke drifted upwards into the darkness. My room is on the third floor; in front of the door I set my body between the lock and my guests so I could palm the wedge that kept it closed without their noticing I had no key. As I released the wedge Le Sac swept past me, heading straightway for the table upon which I customarily write.

  “Mr Sac!” Bedwalters protested, shocked. But for once he did not get the obedience to which he was accustomed. Le Sac was apparently beyond reason. He leant upon the table to seize up the nearest books (Corelli’s concertos). But the broken leg of the table gave way and threw all the papers and books into his lap; he toppled backwards, grabbed at the nearest support – Bedwalters – and dragged him down too. They sat upon the floor, as the volumes slid one by one to the floor around them with great crashes. I started to laugh; they looked at me with astonishment.

  “I did remind you to repair that, Mr Patterson,” Mrs Foxton said from the door-hinge.

  Le Sac rifled my books and papers, impatiently muttering over Bedwalters’ more sedate and polite searching. He even tore open my fiddle case – not, I believe, to see if I had hidden anything there but to snort at the poor quality of the instrument. As it happens, it is a violin by Agutter, once of London before – alas! – he came home to this town to die; it is a fine instrument, although mild in its manner of speaking. It does not, however, look very distinguished, and Le Sac had his snort.

  He did not, however, have his music. He glared over Bedwalters’ shoulder into my cupboards, at my meagre stocks of food, of raven quills and of ruled paper. He flicked through my letters – including the last letter from my mother (at which I nearly set upon him) – and insisted on Bedwalters turning over my mattress. When he was for pulling up the floorboards, however, Bedwalters stopped him.

  “I do not imagine any benefit from the exercise, sir. I have tramped upon all the boards and there are none loose.”

  And down the stairs they went, one by one, the girl leading the way with her candle, Le Sac huddled in his greatcoat and muttering some nonsense in French, and Bedwalters bringing up the rear.

  “I shall see the visitors out,” Mrs Foxton said loudly – and then softly, so only I might hear, “while you get the boy out of the attic cupboard.”

  4

  CONCERTO FOR SOLO HARPSICHORD

  Movement III

  The boy was very ugly. He looked at me pleadingly from a face covered in red scabs that he had scratched; some were bleeding still. In the dim light of a candle, I could see that he hugged a violin case to his thin chest and over the case, like some hairy animal, an old tow wig. His own hair was as threadbare as a child’s toy, stringy dark strands barely covering his reddened scalp. And he smelt rancid.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded. My head was pounding; I really did not wish to deal with Le Sac’s apprentice or any such matters now. What was the boy’s name? Wilson, Wilkinson…no, Williams. “If you have run away from your master, you must know I cannot shelter you.”

  “Turned off,” he said and burst into tears.

  So much for my commendation of Le Sac’s generosity. I dragged the boy down the creaking stairs into my room, and told him to sit on the bed while I lit a branch of candles. By the time I could pay attention to him again, he had stopped snivelling and was holding out a letter to me. I turned the crackling paper over – it was addressed to Jas. Williams on the Key. A chandler, evidently. The seal that held the paper’s edges together was already broken.

  It is, we are taught, impolite to read letters addressed to other people. There are times, however, when temptation overwhelms good principles, and I had been tried much that night. I unfolded the stiff paper and read.

  Sir,

  I return with this letter your Boy. He is no longer able to fulfil his Duties as Apprentice since his Arm is broke. I hereby acquit him of all Obligations to me.

  Your Obt. Servt, Henri Le Sac.

  I glanced up at the boy. “I don’t suppose he gave you your premium back?”

  “Him?” the boy said scornfully. “Give money away? Never!” I liked him better for that flash of spirit, but there was no doubt that his situation was unhappy. His father had probably saved for years to pay his son’s apprentice premium. If Le Sac did not return the money, he might well be unable to find the sum a second time.

  “Well,” Mrs Foxton said from the latch. “Hear the boy play.”

  The boy jumped up eagerly and turned his back to open his violin case upon the bed. “What are you doing?” I whispered to the gleam on the tarnished metal. “I can’t afford to take on an apprentice without a premium.”

  “Hear him play,” she said again, then more loudly to the boy, “Come on, hurry up!”

  I thought her sharpness might overset him again but he turned, face glowing, with his violin in hand – a small one as befitted his age (twelve? thirteen?). I saw the injury the accident had caused; it had been the left arm broken and it had healed with an odd kind of twist; when he lifted his violin to his shoulder, it seemed to stick out from his body at an impractical angle.

  Presumably Le Sac felt that this would always prevent him from playing well. But I disagreed; he played very tolerably. There was something to be desired in the expression of the slow melodies and a great deal too much flamboyance in the fast passages – a certain carelessness, even – as might be expected from a pupil of Le Sac. But nothing that might not be mended.

  “You could do very well with an apprentice,” Mrs Foxton murmured in my ear as I leant against the door jamb. “Three shillings and sixpence every time he plays in the band. Train him up a bit and he mig
ht be fit enough for a solo – that would be five shillings a night. Then there are the dancing assemblies – three shillings sixpence a week in winter. He could increase your present income by, oh, a third.”

  Old habits die hard, or, in Mrs Foxton’s case, do not die at all. She had always been an excellent businesswoman. And she was right – even without a premium, the boy could prove profitable. But what would Le Sac say? He had already accused me of stealing his books; would he not also accuse me of stealing his apprentice?

  “Anyway,” Mrs Foxton said, “the boy’s father might well be able to afford a second premium. He’s a chandler, isn’t he? He’ll be coining money. Ships’ merchants are all rogues.”

  The late Mr Foxton had allegedly been a chandler, I recalled, in Sunderland-by-the-Sea. I say allegedly, because no one had ever proved there had been a late Mr Foxton, though no one had ever said as much to his widow, alive or dead. But what really decided me was that vicious snort of Le Sac’s as he had looked upon my Agutter violin. I could not compete with him in the Concerts, and even his nonsensical compositions were better than mine; but I could in this one thing do him a bad turn by doing someone else a good turn. Ignoble of me to think in such a way, I know, but Le Sac irresistibly invited such thoughts.

  So I agreed. I bedded the boy down on the floor with a blanket and next morning went down with him to his father’s shop. The Key was crowded with sailors, hauling coals on board the keels anchored there, smoking vile-smelling tobacco and spitting into the water that slapped up against the river walls. In the chandler’s shop coils of rope and unlabelled sacks were piled high, a dog panted from a heap of nets. I gagged, the moment I walked in, at the stink of tar and soap and piss.

  The boy’s father was a good bargainer but he was anxious to be rid of a runt of a son who started heaving and wheezing when he came too close to the clouds of flour in the store. In the end, I took a guinea from the fellow and he promised me five shillings every week for the boy’s food. I bore George (for that was his name) off to the nearest breeches shop and used part of the guinea to buy him clothes decent enough to play in at the Concerts.