Broken Harmony

by Roz Southey

  “I am not needed,” I pointed out. “Signor Bitti is to play the keyboard.”

  “In the band as well as the solos?”

  “I have not heard precisely, but that would be my understanding.”

  “Ah,” Ord said and nodded. “Well, Patterson – what do you say to that Irish jig in the second selection of airs? Most excellent, eh?”

  “Very unusual,” I said, temporising.

  At the end of the concert, I sent George off to bespeak one of Hoult’s pies – there is nothing like extended playing to work up an appetite – and started to pack away my music while the crowds thronged around Parry. Jenison’s crisp voice sounded above all, offering congratulations. Then, as I turned to lower the harpsichord lid, I was startled by Lady Anne who swung up behind it and leant towards me. She was clearly in a better temper than she had been in the morning, her face flushed and laughing, her hair in elegant disarray. Leaning forward upon the closed lid, she afforded me a view of her slight breasts, enclosed in gold satin. Diamond drops lay on her white, flawless skin.

  “I have been doing you a good turn,” she whispered, with a quick dart of her eyes here and there as if to ensure she was not overheard.

  I was annoyed by the way she seemed constantly to seek me out, and alarmed too that others might draw erroneous conclusions from her behaviour. We had already attracted some attention. “How so, my lady?” I asked warily.

  “I have been extolling your qualities to Mr Jenison.”

  “I am most grateful, madam,” I said dryly.

  “And I have been pointing out how admired the Italian players are in London nowadays.”

  I realised she had not been glancing round to ensure that no one overheard but quite the opposite, for Jenison himself was walking up behind me.

  “I fancy, madam,” he said with some directness, “that I do not need fashionable fribbles in London to tell me what is good and what is not.”

  She inclined her head. “I think we both agree, Mr Jenison, that certain persons have a natural judgment that can recognise quality wherever it appears.”

  When she said certain persons, she clearly meant you and I. Her smiling glance indicated that I also was to be included.

  “I have always been entirely sure, Lady Anne,” Jenison said, “that England produces talent to match anything that is found abroad.”

  “Better, on some occasions,” the lady agreed and cast another significant glance in my direction, which caused me both embarrassment and annoyance.

  “English musicianship,” Jenison pronounced, his gaze momentarily fixed upon the visionary distance, “is of a more solid and durable quality than that found anywhere else in the world. Lady Anne, may I escort you to your carriage?”

  “Why, thank you, sir. But I seem to have mislaid my cloak. I think I left it in the window embrasure.”

  “Allow me, my lady.” He bowed.

  Lady Anne watched until he was out of earshot before leaning closer. “Wait until tomorrow, Mr Patterson, and you will reap the full benefit of what I have done.”

  “My lady –”

  But she was gone and I was left, annoyed and irritated, to dwell on Jenison’s doubtful compliment (to be durable is all very well but who wishes to be regarded as solid?), and to worry over what Lady Anne might have done this time.

  16

  BASS SONG

  Parry was a sociable man and kept me eating and drinking in Mrs Hill’s until the small hours of the morning. I was a willing participant, drinking more than I ought in order to forget my worries. George fell asleep after a huge piece of pie; I roused him after a while and sent him home, too sleepy to protest. When Parry did at last tire, I bade him a cheerful goodbye and lurched off to tell Lady Anne and Esther Jerdoun exactly what I thought of them and to insist that I would have nothing more to do with them. I saw hardly anyone in the darkness, except for the women of the streets; I don’t recall what I said to those who accosted me but they went away in flounces of anger. I was fortunate that no thieves attacked me, though I heard someone yell at me as I walked into Caroline Square.

  I would not be intimidated, I would not be manipulated. I walked straight across the square to the house, making sure that I lingered on that particular place in the road. And when the familiar shiver took me and I saw first darkness and then the tall looming presence of the houses in that elegant street, I was exultant. I stood in the middle of the street and I shouted at the top of my voice…

  And then I shivered again and stared stupidly at the man who was shaking my arm. “For God’s sake, man!” Claudius Heron snapped. “Be quiet!”

  I squinted at him. “What are you doing here?”

  A shade of annoyance crossed his face, no doubt at my disrespectful tone. I ignored it, laughing drunkenly. “Been out on the town? Entertaining some lady?”

  His lean pale cheeks reddened. “Patterson,” he said, “you will regret this tomorrow. Let me take you home.”

  “I hope she was worth the money,” I said. Heron, I dimly remembered, was a widower. “Would it not be more convenient to find a servant in your own house?”

  “Patterson!” he said, scandalised, then sighed. “Come with me. No –” I had attempted to extricate myself from his grip. “Aren’t you cold? It’s a cold night. You must go home.”

  “A cold night,” I said. “Made me shiver… Didn’t you feel it?”

  He frowned. “There was something odd – ”

  “Cold and dark – and a street, not a square. And when I shouted, windows went up and someone shouted back and… and then you came. You must have seen the street! Old elegant houses.”

  Another sigh. “I shouted,” he said. “I saw you reeling drunkenly down the street and came after you. For God’s sake, man, think of your reputation!”

  I considered this. He was right. I nodded. “You’ll be dismissing me again.”

  He swore and slung my arm over his shoulder.

  After that, I remember nothing.

  I was woken at an appallingly early hour by a loud voice. When I struggled on to my elbow, wincing at the bright sunshine slanting into the room, I saw George backing away from a large presence.

  “Patterson!” the presence cried. “Still abed? For God’s sake, man – it’s a wonderful day!”

  I groaned and tried to pull the sheets over my head. My eyes were sore and my head was one huge, throbbing ache. And I was remembering the encounter with Heron, wondering if there had been more I didn’t remember. I had invited him to dismiss me, I recalled. In heaven’s name, how had I allowed myself to be so foolish?

  “Get up and dressed, man,” the presence said. “We’re wasting drinking time!”

  My stomach churned as I struggled to sit up. The last thing I needed was an encounter with Tom Mountier – good friend though he was, and in my opinion the finest bass voice in England. But he has a habit of not confining his singing to his professional duties at Durham Cathedral, or at our Concerts, but of breaking into song on the least pretext. And my tormented head wanted no recitals that morning.

  “In heaven’s name, Tom, do you never think of anything but drink? George, fetch me washing water.”

  The boy disappeared downstairs and Mountier perched himself on my chair while I hunted beneath the bedclothes for my breeches. Thomas Mountier is a fleshy man; his height enables him to call himself well-built but another few years of indulgence will make him fat. If the drink doesn’t kill him first.

  He contemplated me while I dressed. “Who’s the lad?”

  “He’s my apprentice. Le Sac passed him on to me, in a way.”

  His black eyebrows shot together and apart again, and his wig bobbed. Mountier’s face could never hide his feelings. I peered at him. “Are you here to sing at his benefit tonight?”

  “Purcell,” he agreed. “‘To arms, Britons, to arms!’”

  “You could sing that in your sleep.”

  “I have.” He grinned.

  “How was Edinburgh?”

/>   The grin became a grimace. “Full of censorious tradesmen. Mr Mountier, could you not sing somewhat more softly? Mr Mountier, that song you propose – is it not a little, er, wanting in gentility?” His imitation of a pedantic Scotch accent was excellent. “And then you go along to their so-called concert and face an audience of no more than five ‘gentlemen’ who can’t even play instruments but talk so learnedly you’d think they’d invented the science.”

  “Ah, a private meeting. But they paid you well?”

  “Hah!” He made a parsimonious pout. “But you’re not Italian, Mr Mountier. I may not be Italian, I told ’em, but I was the rage of London concerts a couple of years back.”

  I buttoned up my waistcoat. “What then?”

  “Damn it, Patterson, you know what then. They asked me why I hadn’t stayed in London and I said, there are times when a man has to put devotion before fame, and they pursed up their presbyterian mouths and said that in that case I ought to be satisfied with the piddling salary the Dean and Chapter of Durham pay me for singing in their heathen cathedral.” He made another face. “I beat them up to what they pay their precious Italians.”

  George came back with the water and I rinsed my face and hands. “Piddling salary, the man says! I’d accept fifty pounds a year if offered it.”

  “You should have seen what I was getting in London,” he bemoaned. But we both knew he could not go back to that; the drink was catching up with him much too quickly.

  “When did you get back?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “And came straight here? Aren’t you supposed to chant the psalms at evensong at least now and again?”

  “I get one of the others to do it for me. He’s glad of the extra money. But I must be back tomorrow or I’ll miss matins at St Nicholas. Can’t neglect my other pious duties as parish clerk, you know.”

  “Do you ever sing in the cathedral?”

  “Not if I can help it, my boy. Those prebendaries – they believe in it all, you know. Po-faced, the lot of them. And talking of someone else who can’t abide all the posturing and posing, Hesletine gave me a note for you.”

  I unfolded the paper, edging away from the too-bright shafts of sunlight that dazzled from the page. The note from Hesletine, the Durham organist, was brief. He had unfortunately not had the pleasure of Mr Demsey’s company for several months.

  “Are you ready, man?” Mountier said impatiently. “No, not you, youngster, we’re going to drink far too deep for you!”

  We walked out, leaving George pouting. As always I felt dwarfed by Mountier. He cleared his throat as we came into the sunny street and stood on the doorstep humming and watching a carter trying to negotiate a pack of dogs outside the tavern.

  “Now I come to think of it,” I said, “I had forgot you were parish clerk at St Nicholas. So you’ll know it well. St Nicholas in Durham, I mean, not St Nicholas here.”

  “Charles,” Mountier said severely. “You’re babbling.”

  “Damn it, I’m making perfect sense. I’ve heard of a fellow called Thomas Powell who was organist at St Nicholas’s church. But he was never organist at St Nicholas’s church in this town, so I wondered if he was organist at St Nicholas in Durham. See, it is all perfectly clear.” Oh God, my head ached.

  “If you say so,” Mountier said with good humour.

  “Well, was he?”

  “Was who what?”

  “Was Thomas Powell,” I said very carefully, “organist at St Nicholas’s church in Durham?”

  “You’re still half asleep, Charles,” Mountier said with delight. “He can’t have been. Church hasn’t got an organ. I suggested a violin once.” Mountier shook with laughter. “Should have heard the churchwardens – shocked to their core. A violin in church, Mr Mountier? How can you suggest such a thing?” He slapped me on the back. “Come on, man, we have some serious drinking to do. And don’t worry – we’ll not lose track of time. We’ll be there for the rehearsal.”

  “You may be,” I said. “But I am not invited to play. Signor Bitti from York plays the harpsichord.”

  “Bitti? Very tolerable player. Pleasant fellow, too – speaks damn good English. But surely he doesn’t play with the band?”

  “Mountier,” I said wearily, “if I were to explain all the intricacies of the affair, we would still be standing on this doorstep next month.”

  “But we have time!” he cried. “We have all morning to drink in!” And with the carter at that moment passing us, we strode off along the street.

  We spent the morning in Mrs Hill’s in the Fleshmarket. In daylight, when the butcher’s stalls are set up, the street stinks of offal and buzzes with flies that have constantly to be waved away. Mountier, with his unquenchable interest in food, insisted upon examining the choicest cuts of meat until thirst drove him at last into Mrs Hill’s. Yet neither food nor drink had caused him to forget what I had said. He made me tell him everything (although I remained silent upon my suspicions of Demsey and mentioned Mrs Jerdoun as little as possible) while he downed a great quantity of ale and grew steadily more cheerful, if such a thing was possible. He called for his tankard to be filled again and again, yet it was remarkable that when he arose finally and went for a piss in the necessary-house behind the inn, we had precisely the time required to get to the Turk’s Head for the beginning of the rehearsal.

  Against my better judgment, I agreed to accompany him. I was interested to see Signor Bitti; anyone of whom Mountier spoke in favour must be excellent. A large number of people had turned out for the rehearsal, the day being fine, and I was happy to be able to lose myself in the press at the side of the room, although my view of the harpsichord was not as good as I had hoped.

  Contemplating the very small band of players gathered around Le Sac, it was clear that the other performers were not as prompt as Mountier (although doubtlessly they would be more sober). I was just wondering if Signor Bitti had after all cried off, when Mountier came into the room by the rear stairs. He was all smiles, his arm around the shoulder of a slender fashionable gentleman of tender years, eighteen at most. The young gentleman wore an embarrassed smile but when he laughed at some joke of Mountier’s his entire demeanour changed. He was really astonishingly handsome.

  They weaved across the room – in part to avoid the congregated ladies and gentlemen, in part (I was certain) because Mountier could not walk a straight line. I realised to my horror that I was not as well hidden as I had hoped and that they were coming straight towards me. I glanced in Le Sac’s direction and saw him staring at us, his face twisted with anger.

  Mountier introduced us, voice as loud as a bugle horn, and the gentleman – who was indeed Signor Bitti – and I made our bows. He was, I saw, nervous and Mountier’s next words made him more so.

  “Patterson is our usual harpsichord player,” Mountier roared.

  “Oh? But I would not wish…” Bitti stammered. “I – If you –”

  “I am greatly looking forward to hearing you play,” I said warmly, to put him at his ease. “It is not often that we have the chance to hear someone so up to date with the latest London novelties.”

  This was something of a lie, as we flatter ourselves on our knowledge of the metropolis, being in regular contact with all the best publishers in London and corresponding regularly with promoters of concerts in the capital. Le Sac’s presence, too, must indicate that I had understated our pretensions. But Signor Bitti clearly recognised what my words were meant to convey – a disclaimer of offence. He bowed and went with Mountier to talk to Le Sac. I heard Le Sac loudly ask after the health of his ‘good friends’ – a number of eminent musicians whose names clearly impressed such listeners as Henry Wright.

  Time wore on and still the other band members did not arrive. Signor Bitti tried out the harpsichord and frowned over its tuning; Wright attempted a passage, unsuccessfully, on his tenor. Dr Brown rubbed a speck of dust from the impeccable polish of his violoncello. A gentleman with a German flute edged in with an apo
logy for his lateness, and two cellists arrived breathless ten minutes later. But it soon became clear that no one else would arrive, leaving the band woefully thin and bottom-heavy; indeed, I thought the rehearsal could hardly go on. With only one violinist apart from Le Sac, and a poor player at that (for it was Nichols), how could they maintain the accompaniment while Le Sac played his solos?

  And as I looked round the impatient ladies and gentlemen, my eyes set upon Lady Anne standing by the entrance door. I looked away at once but not before she had given me a mischievous look. I recalled her words the previous night: Wait until tomorrow and you will reap the benefit of what I have done. Was this her doing? But why should she wish to humiliate Le Sac in this way?

  They were forced at last to begin, starting with a solo of Mountier’s so that Le Sac could play in the band. No doubt they hoped that latecomers would arrive before the violin solos needed to be rehearsed. Le Sac was red-faced with anger. I looked about the room as they tuned, searching for those regular members of the band who had not yet arrived. Mr Ord and Mr Heron, for instance – where were they? Not that I looked forward to meeting Heron after the events of last night. I had written him a note of apology from Mrs Hill’s, but I was certain there would be undesirable consequences from that incident. How in heaven’s name had I allowed myself to become so drunk!

  Despite the gross deficiencies of the band, Signor Bitti played quite brilliantly. In Mountier’s songs he was reticent, allowing the soloist to dominate, never intruding. In his own solos he combined both dexterity and expressiveness, not indulging in virtuosity for its own sake but always subordinating technique to the demands of the music. I was so taken with his playing that I hardly noticed Le Sac sawing away on his precious black violin or Mountier, with perfect diction and pathetic delicacy, first rousing tears in the eyes of the ladies, then, with bellicose bombast, inciting us all to warlike and patriotic sentiments. No one could have imagined him drunk. But Signor Bitti took my chief attention and, at an interval in the rehearsal, I went to him to express my appreciation and, greatly daring, to ask for a lesson.