Nigel and Inga kept us apprised of the festival programme as it developed, and in April gave us copies of the beautifully printed brochure. ‘Good heavens,’ I said, scanning the cover page. ‘Sir John Warner! Nigel, I’m even more impressed that you’re a part of this. You never told us he was the organizer.’
‘We wanted to save that for a nice surprise,’ he said.
For Sir John was in the very first rank of English choral conductors, right up there with Stephen Cleobury and John Rutter. His knighthood was recent, but I had gathered that, among his fellow musicians, he was felt to have earned it long ago. ‘He’s amazing. After that terrible accident, when he lost his wife and nearly died himself, to come so far . . .’
‘He is the most sensitive conductor I’ve ever worked with,’ said Nigel with enthusiasm. ‘And a truly fine person to boot.’
‘I didn’t know you had worked with him. You never sang with the Camerata of London, did you?’
‘No, but I knew him at King’s, and he’s been guest conductor for a few concerts with choral societies here and there. I’ve sung with him twice. He knows exactly the sound he wants, and knows how to get it. Firm but so good that one doesn’t mind being bossed.’
‘And I suppose you soloed for him, and that’s how you got picked for this festival.’
‘Not at all! At least, yes, I did a solo or two, and he did mention that the festival was coming up and a quartet was needed, and told me about the auditions. But the auditions were blind. I mean, he didn’t just choose singers he liked . . .’
He trailed off, in danger of saying something that sounded like self-praise. The English half coming out again. I tactfully went back to the brochure. ‘Oh, they’re doing the “Lord Nelson Mass”! That’s one of my favourites. I do love the Haydn Masses. And ending with a real barn-burner, Carmina Burana. And the opera bits, let’s see . . . Lucia, Barber, Butterfly, Traviata, Carmen – an embarrassment of riches! And that wonderful chorus from Nabucco, too. I think that’s one of the loveliest bits of all opera. Haunting.’
Nigel began singing it softly. ‘Va, pensiero . . .’ And I, whose Italian is limited to terms like al dente, hummed along happily until he stopped in the middle. ‘This is where it goes into parts, and I’m afraid I know only the tenor, which sounds rather strange by itself.’
‘You really are a wonderful singer, Nigel. Are the other soloists as good as you?’
‘Oh, I’m sure they’re splendid. I’ve not met any of them yet, but they all have great reputations.’
I looked at the names, none of them familiar to me. ‘Well, if they’re all that good, the festival must have a pretty healthy budget.’
Nigel turned slightly pink and muttered something about the money not being the important part, from which I gathered that his own stipend might not be terribly impressive. Well, he was an amateur, after all. Very talented, and well trained at King’s College years ago, but a computer specialist, not a professional singer who made his living that way. I let the subject drop. ‘Will Sir John bring his wife and family, do you think?’
‘The twins are a bit young for concerts, only Nigel Peter’s age, and I don’t know that Lady Cynthia will want to leave them with the nanny for a whole week. Then there’s her own career. She’s a pianist, you know, and is off doing her own thing quite a lot of the time. I think the family sometimes do travel with him, but they stay out of the limelight. She might come for a concert or two. You’d enjoy meeting her, I think. She’s very pleasant.’
‘Then we’ll hope she can come.’ I went back to perusing the programme of delights that would be in store in a couple of months.
June came at last. We’d had a cold, wet spring, and I’d despaired of summer ever breaking through, but when it came, it came in splendour. ‘“What is so rare as a day in June?”’ I declaimed as we packed the car with luggage for a two-week stay in Wales.
‘Is that a question or a quotation?’ asked Alan mildly.
‘A quotation. As you knew perfectly well, since I spout it regularly at this time of the year. James Russell Lowell, American poet, nineteenth century,’ I added, the schoolteacher in me holding forth. ‘And one of my father’s favourite lines.’
‘Your father had a point. Days like this are indeed rare. Especially in England.’
‘Now, now! You’re the one who’s always telling me that I slander English weather!’
Nigel, who with Inga had gone a week earlier for rehearsals, had given us detailed directions for Tower Wales, our B&B just outside the unfortunately named Welsh town of Mold. We stopped for supper at a pleasant pub in Chester, near the Welsh border, and then drove through the long summer evening to find our beds for the next ten days.
We had called ahead to say we were on our way, and when we got to the top of the long drive, Nigel and Inga were waiting for us by the open gate. ‘You can park around back once you’ve unloaded your things, but we wanted you to see the front of the house first thing,’ said Inga. ‘We think it’s rather nice.’
Her dimple was much in evidence. I realized she was teasing me.
‘“Rather nice” indeed! It’s magnificent, and you know it!’
‘Ah, but you know we English don’t tend toward the superlative.’ We all laughed, and she said, ‘All right, it’s brilliant. That’s the oldest bit there, the part with the five-foot walls.’ She pointed to the square tower to the left of the front door. ‘Mid-1400s, but they don’t know exactly when. Just drive on through, and you can meet Charles and Mairi. They’ll tell you all about it. We’ll close the gate and be right behind you.’
The Wynne-Eytons were graciousness personified, welcoming us to their home with as much warmth as if we’d been friends for years. After we’d been shown to our room, next to Nigel and Inga’s in that amazing square tower, Charles said, ‘I’d be happy to show you around the house, if you like, but I imagine you’d rather wait until morning for that?’
We agreed. It had been a long day.
‘And breakfast?’
Nigel said, ‘The rehearsals tomorrow are all orchestral, so I’ve got the day off, and I’ve an idea for a little excursion you two might enjoy. If we got a fairly early start . . .’
Alan nodded. ‘Breakfast at nine, then?’
We took the time to unpack, and exclaim a bit over our large and elegant bedroom and Gothic-arched bathroom, before tumbling exhausted into the superbly comfortable bed. My last thought before sleep overtook me was how utterly still and peaceful the country was.
TWO
Breakfast was one of those calorie- and cholesterol-laden feasts that I’ve come to expect in a first-class English hostelry. Of course this one was Welsh, but the menu was much the same. Mairi served us and explained that Charles was the grill cook and also made the marmalade, which was far and away the best I’d ever tasted.
‘So what is this expedition you have planned for us?’ I asked Nigel when I’d eaten enough to choke a horse, or at least a Great Dane. I poured myself another cup of excellent coffee and furtively spread another piece of toast with butter and marmalade.
‘Have you ever travelled on the inland waterways?’
‘The canals? No. Alan and I have thought about it, but navigating the locks and all sounds a little complicated.’
‘Well, you’re going to today. On a tour boat out of Llangollen.’
I couldn’t begin to reproduce the way Nigel pronounced that name, and I didn’t intend to try. It seemed to involve a lot of sounds that don’t exist in English.
‘A tour?’ Alan raised one eyebrow. ‘We’re not overly fond of tours, being averse to being herded around with a lot of other people.’
‘It’s not like that,’ said Nigel, and Inga nodded. ‘This one is special. Actually, the boat goes to Llangollen, not from. It starts at . . .’ He patted his pockets. ‘Oh, I have it here someplace. At any rate, you board the boat, and it takes you to Llangollen through some very pretty country, but the exciting part is, you go over the oldest and highest aq
ueduct in Britain. You see, the canal crosses the River Dee, but at a height of almost a hundred and thirty feet, and you won’t believe how odd it feels to be in a boat that far up in the air.’
‘But . . . is it safe? I mean, if it’s a couple of thousand years old . . .’
Alan roared at that, and Nigel and Inga laughed somewhat more politely.
‘What’s so funny?’ I said indignantly. ‘I know the Romans were wonderful builders and all that, but surely—’
‘The Romans weren’t the only ones who built aqueducts, dear heart,’ said Alan, still chuckling. ‘They were very popular with Victorian engineers as well, and many have been converted into railway bridges. I seem to remember, Nigel, that this one is a Telford creation?’
So I got a history lesson, all about the famous Victorian engineer Thomas Telford and his iron bridges that everyone said would never stand, hailed now as the work of genius – and still standing. This one, which rejoiced in the totally unpronounceable name of the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, was well over 200 years old and still structurally sound and in daily use.
‘All right, I’m game, as long as you don’t make me try to say it,’ I said when they had finished lecturing me. ‘But when this trip is over and we’re back home, I swear I’m going to make the Welsh a gift of a large package of vowels.’
Before we took off for the day, while Inga and Nigel made their daily call home to check on their son, Charles showed us over the house. It wasn’t large, as country houses go. None of your Blenheim Palace, with its acres of elaborate rooms, or even Chartwell. No, this was a home, comfortable, easy to navigate – and something over 500 years old.
‘I understand from Nigel that you don’t know exactly when the house was built,’ I said when he had showed us the great hall of mayor-hanging fame.
‘No, unfortunately my ancestors didn’t keep proper records, or else they’ve been lost over the years. We’re not even sure when the various bits were added on, though we’re trying to find out. It’s a fascinating quest, if rather frustrating.’
We talked a little about the difficulties of living in an old house and trying to keep it in good repair. Ours, at least a hundred years younger than this one, presents new problems almost weekly, but we wouldn’t live anywhere else.
Nigel was trying to curb his impatience, without much success. So we piled into his car and took off for Llangollen.
I had heard for years about the Welsh mountains. I’m afraid I’d been somewhat condescending about them. When you’re from a country that boasts the Rockies, you tend to designate as hills anything short of the Alps. I had assumed that the Welsh mountains were like our Smokies: pretty, but low, rounded, old.
I was drastically wrong. Nigel drove us over something called Horseshoe Pass (which sounds like it should belong in the American West), and I was blown away. ‘But these are real mountains! Rugged, sharp, high . . . and absolutely beautiful!’
‘Yes, we thought you might enjoy the view,’ said Inga sedately from the back seat. ‘This is a bit out of our way, but we had some idea you didn’t quite understand about these mountains.’
I turned around and stuck my tongue out at her.
It didn’t take us long after that to reach Llangollen, a town that would have been lovely if it hadn’t been quite so crowded.
‘Goodness! Wall to wall people! What’s the big attraction?’
‘A big international Eisteddfod is held here every year?’ Inga’s inflection made a question of it, and I nodded to indicate that I knew that.
‘Well, it’s to be only a few weeks from now, about a month, I think, so lots of people are here for the preparations.’
‘It’s a huge festival, you know, quite unlike our little one,’ said Nigel. ‘A lot of folk music of various kinds, country dance, poetry, that sort of thing. But all sorts, really, from pop to classical. One year they did bits of Noye’s Fludde. It was brilliant!’
I know the Britten opera only by reputation, but I tried to look intelligent.
‘And highly competitive,’ Nigel went on. ‘Groups and soloists come from all over the world. I think last year something like forty countries were represented. Ours is small beer by comparison.’
‘Not from what you tell me about the musicians,’ I said firmly.
Nigel found, at last, a place to park the car, and we strolled the crowded streets, glancing in the shops and admiring the gardens and listening to the many languages and accents among the passers-by.
‘There’s a café in Paris, on the Rue de la Paix, I believe, of which it used to be said that if one sat there long enough, the whole world would pass by.’ I gestured around us. ‘Not quite Paris, but a pretty fair sampling of the whole world, wouldn’t you say?’
The booking office for the canal boat rides was at the top of a steep hill. Nigel planted the three of us at a hotel restaurant near the bottom of the climb. ‘Look, we’ve lashings of time, and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Why don’t I nip up and get the tickets while you lot order lunch? Anything will do for me, Inga.’
‘Right. Off you go.’
We had a pleasant, if unremarkable lunch. The dessert trolley was, however, laden with temptations, and after I had made my way through some sort of delectable steamed pudding (called on the menu ‘Pwdin Eryri’, whatever that may be), I staggered to my feet and said, ‘Nigel, it was sweet of you to get our tickets, but I do think it would have been easier to climb that hill before lunch.’
‘But you see, we don’t have to climb the hill. We wait down here, just the other side of the street, for the bus that takes us to the embarkation point. A bit convoluted, I know, but I gather there’s not a large car park at that end.’
Alan nodded in acquiescence, so I hid my shrug. I ought to have learned by now that they do things somewhat differently on this side of the pond. A bus ride to take a boat ride to get back where you started. Okay.
We hadn’t long to wait for the bus, and the ride was quite pleasant, through beautiful country. Several of the passengers seemed to know each other; there was a good deal of conversation and laughter at the back. It didn’t take long to get to the place where we were to catch the boat, and as we had been the last to board the bus, we were first off, and therefore first to board the boat.
It was an interesting craft. Barely wide enough to seat two plus one across, with a narrow aisle, it had windows on both sides and at the front (the prow, I suppose), with a minute sort of refreshment bar at the back, opposite the door. We were put aboard in what seemed like an odd fashion, with empty seats between passengers, until I realized that a small boat had to be balanced, side to side and front to back. But eventually all had boarded and we took off.
After a brief announcement about the available refreshments, the man at the microphone left the passengers to get acquainted, and we began to look around. Nigel knew several of the other passengers.
‘Well, not to say know, but I recognize them. That chap over there is in the chorus for the Va, pensiero. Fine baritone; he’ll make a soloist one day. Those two women near the tea bar are in the Carmen chorus, and there’s about a row of Haydn sopranos back there by the door.’
‘Hmm. I’ll expect you all to break into the “Skye Boat Song” any minute now.’
With a mischievous look Nigel stepped into the aisle and stood up. ‘Good afternoon to you all and especially to my fellow musicians. There are quite a number of us, and though we’ve rehearsed various pieces, there are two I’m sure we all know. In English or Welsh, your choice. First our famous hymn.’ He hummed a few bars of the end, paused a beat and then launched into the great Welsh hymn that I know as ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah’.
The Welsh have a great choral tradition. Their men’s choirs are famous throughout the world, and this particular hymn, written by a Welshman, has become sort of an ‘anthem’ at rugby games. I remember it well from William and Kate’s wedding, and hearing it sung in four-part harmony by those beautiful, well-trained voices, some
using the English words and some the Welsh, brought a lump to my throat. Many of the other passengers joined in, but I couldn’t get out a single note.
Then, after a pause, Nigel sang three notes, and the group began the most famous Welsh song of them all, ‘All Through the Night’.
That time I had to root in my handbag for tissues.
When they had finished, Nigel turned back to see the passing scene, and I took a few last sniffs and wiped my eyes. ‘Nigel, that was so lovely! All that gorgeous harmony!’
‘Yes, well, I just wish there were a little more harmony in rehearsals.’
‘They’re not going well? I would have thought musicians of this calibre . . .’
‘Oh, it’s not the music, exactly. That’s going well enough, although there was more enthusiasm shown just now than we’ve had in rehearsal. It’s . . . undercurrents. I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s tension—’
He was interrupted by our guide. ‘We’ve all enjoyed the music, friends, but now I want to draw your attention to some points of interest.’ He went on to talk amusingly about the canal, the rules of the ‘road’, and some of the passing scene.
‘We’ve enough musicians on board that you’ll be interested in this next house, on your right. It’s been turned into a luxury hotel, and was the favourite place for Luciano Pavarotti to stay when he came to these parts. Pavarotti and his bed, that is. He travelled with his own.’
‘Given his size,’ I whispered to Alan, ‘I’ll bet the innkeepers were delighted. Saved them broken springs.’
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to the highlight of our trip, the passage over the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct. The aqueduct is one thousand and seven feet long and eleven feet wide, counting the towpath. It passes over the River Dee at a height of a hundred and twenty-six feet. It was completed in 1805, making it over two hundred years old, and is a World Heritage Site. We’re not allowed to stop the boat as we go over, but we’ll ask the skipper to slow her down as much as possible, so you can take pictures. Mind you don’t drop the camera overboard!’
Murder at the Castle Page 3