The Song of Hartgrove Hall

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘You look cheery this morning,’ says Sal, striding towards me in her green slacks, straggles of hair whipping out like yellow ribbons behind her.

  Sal is the only person whom I don’t mind meeting on my walks. She knows when to talk and when to be quiet.

  She stops a couple of yards from me and prods a shell with her toe, then yawns and stretches, showing her smooth midriff, the sunlight catching the fine down on her belly. I want to reach out and stroke it with my fingers. I can’t tell whether she’s teasing me deliberately. I realise that I’d very much like to sleep with her. I’ve still not slept with a girl. I feel embarrassed and backward about the whole thing. The chat amongst the others brims with misadventures on tour – tales of furious landladies and slamming doors, and while I doubt how much of it can possibly be true, I listen with apprehension, dreading the moment when I’m called upon for my own dubious anecdote.

  ‘I’m going collecting today,’ I say.

  ‘Jolly good. We’re short for lunch. Crab or scallops?’

  ‘Songs.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She studies me for a moment, shading her eyes against the glare of the morning sun. Her feet are bare, the sand white against her toes, almost like snow. I notice that she’s wearing a navy-blue sweater knotted around her waist, the coarse-knitted island kind that’s supposed to repel water. I’ve seen the other chaps stare at Sal and make clumsy attempts to flirt, but she bats them away like moths, barely seeming to acknowledge their interest. I don’t much like my own chances. She isn’t pretty, not like Edie; her mouth is too wide and her brown eyes too far apart, but there’s certainly something attractive about her. Perhaps it’s the bold, American confidence. She smacks of the new world, of fresh possibilities. Her clothes are bright and unfaded. Even when she wears drab utility trousers and a man’s sweater, on Sal it looks like a costume or a pose, a decision instead of a defeat.

  ‘You can come with me, if you like,’ I say. ‘You can try to write down the words of the song if we find a singer.’

  ‘All right.’ I reckoned she’d come, but I find that I’m pleased, more pleased than I’d expected.

  ‘We should probably try one of the local pubs. I wonder whether Marcus knows if there’s a singing pub nearby.’

  I’m being optimistic. The nearest village is a huddle of dwellings somewhere between cottages and hovels, all of which are in unfortunate states of repair. The war has not been kind to this part of the highlands. The men left and the younger fellows mostly chose not to return. The place contains widows, old men, children and fish. When we venture into the village to raid the shop for supplies, they watch us, unsmiling and mistrustful. However, I admit to myself with a prickling feeling that I don’t mind if the excursion is a wild-goose chase. I like the prospect of spending a drowsy early summer’s day with Sal. She glances at me and grins, revealing a small gap between her front teeth. It’s odd, I decide, how these assorted collections of small flaws in a face can make someone terribly attractive. It dawns on me that I want to sleep with Sal with considerably more urgency than I wish to collect traditional Scottish songs.

  We return to the cottage to find the others have dragged the furniture onto the beach and are lazing on an armchair and a sofa at the top of the strand. It looks quite peculiar, as though the little sitting room has simply been transported, the shoddy oil seascape that hangs on the cottage wall being replaced with the beach itself. I half expect to see the matted rug and the oil lamps on their side tables. I don’t expect the landlord will be too pleased but Marcus doesn’t seem to bother about such things. He sits with his legs dangling over the armrest of the chair, wrapped in his dressing gown, humming.

  ‘What-ho?’ he calls.

  ‘Fox is taking me song collecting,’ says Sal.

  ‘I am indeed,’ I say, trying to keep the note of satisfaction from my voice.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  I join them in the sitting-room-on-the-beach. ‘Do you know of any singing pubs? Or someone I could ask about singers?’

  Marcus wrinkles his brow. ‘You could ask Mrs Partick.’ When I gaze at him blankly, he adds, ‘The rather sweet old thing who cooks for us and cleans up our dreadful mess. She’ll be here ten-ish.’

  ‘It’s nearly twelve,’ I say.

  Marcus laughs uproariously. ‘Gosh, laziness is thoroughly exhausting.’

  But he’s already up and moving. He’s a man always in motion, like a metronome. If he’s still, it’s only the rest between notes. Clasping in his hands a stash of manuscript paper, he jogs into the waves with it, still in his dressing gown, pyjamas and slippers. In a second he’s thoroughly soaked but he takes no notice. With a shout, he throws the papers up into the air and the sheets flutter down to the surface of the water to float like a shoal of dead fish, belly up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I call, hurrying down to join him, although I do remove my shoes and socks before crashing into the surf.

  Marcus lights a bedraggled cigarette and wistfully surveys the flotsam and jetsam bobbing around him. ‘I was up writing all last night. Utter tosh. I told myself that I should carry on regardless. If I decided it was still drivel in the morning, then I’d burn the whole thing.’ He smiles at me ruefully. ‘I think I should have burned it after all. We’re awfully low on kindling and this gesture wasn’t quite as dramatic as I’d hoped.’

  Wads of sodden paper stick to our legs while some wash up on the sand. The others are all laughing; it’s a bit of a lark – a daft story to tell about Marcus Albright when they get home. He chucks his cigarette into the ocean, half smoked, and crashes back up the strand. Beneath the jovial banter, he’s furious, enraged by his own creative impotence. He reaches out and grabs my arm.

  ‘Can I come with you? I need a change of scene.’

  I’m torn. The chap looks stricken but I was anticipating with some considerable pleasure a day alone with Sal, wondering how I could conceivably combine song collecting with a swim. It might be tawdry, but I’d very much like to see Sal in her brassiere and knickers. Marcus senses my hesitation.

  ‘I won’t get in your way, old chap. Pretty thing but not my type at all. Think you might be hers, though.’

  At once I’m overcome with gratitude, as though any tenderness Sal might feel towards me is entirely owing to Marcus. I shake his hand warmly.

  ‘Yes, of course you must come. Be glad to have you.’

  It’s a relief to leave the others behind, carousing. They’re a motley gang of musicians who’ve played with Marcus over the years, jovial and raucous fellows who’ve spent so long on tour that they’ve lost all notion of and desire for home. Providing they have their instruments and a cold glass of something, they’re quite content or so it seems. Decent as they are, I’m glad to have Sal and even Marcus to myself. As we walk along the snaking path through the dunes, in companionable silence, I sense their relief too.

  I turn to Sal.

  ‘Do you miss Texas?’

  ‘Yes. But as soon as I’m there, I’m desperate to be anywhere else.’

  We check inside the cottage for Mrs Partick but she has already left. Opening the larder, we spy two poached salmon and a salad for supper under a mesh.

  ‘Damn it,’ says Marcus. ‘Suppose we could walk into the village and knock on a few doors. Hope for the best.’

  ‘It’s Sunday. We could catch them after church,’ I say. ‘I’ve found chaps that way before. We ought really to go to the service and listen out for any likely singers.’

  ‘Church it is,’ declares Marcus, rubbing his hands.

  We set back off across the dunes. We’re not really dressed for church. Sal insisted upon changing out of her slacks into a green cotton dress, which, I can’t help but notice, clings intriguingly to her bare legs. Marcus and I swelter in wool jackets and unironed shirts. I try to hide the worst of the creases with my tie but, looking at Marcus who’s at
tempted the same, I concede it’s not terribly successful.

  The church is a low building with harled white walls and a plain grey roof. It squats alone amongst the gorse, solemn and standoffish. The haze of the morning has burned off into a warm blue day but the doors of the church are firmly closed. It’s apparent that we’re late and the service has already started.

  ‘Let’s go back. We can talk to Mrs Partick tomorrow,’ I say, ready to suggest a swim instead.

  ‘Not at all,’ says Marcus, grabbing both our arms and propelling us towards the church.

  ‘We should wait until they come out,’ I say.

  ‘We can’t go inside in the middle of a service,’ says Sal, trying to shake Marcus off, but he laughs, quite undeterred, and urges us forward like a father with recalcitrant children.

  ‘Don’t be such spoilsports. I’m in the mood for God and then a song.’

  Ignoring our grumbles, he thrusts open the doors of the church with a bang. Marcus has a penchant for the dramatic whether it’s Beethoven at the Royal Albert Hall or Sunday morning in Ardnamurchan.

  Forty pale faces beneath forty dark hats swivel to look at us, open-mouthed and agog. The minister splutters, outraged. He’s aloft in the pulpit, arms held wide, and we’ve clearly interrupted a grand moment. The congregation look torn between shock and profound interest. A small child in pigtails is forcibly made to face the front by her mother, who hisses a reprimand. Sal has the grace to be embarrassed. She smiles, blushing at the ladies and gentlemen, who turn away, appalled. Marcus strolls up the centre aisle and slides into a pew near the back.

  ‘Don’t mind us. Do carry on, my good man.’ He waves cheerfully at the parson.

  The minister, a small man with nimbus clouds of white hair, stares at us with fixed horror as though Satan himself had strolled into his church, arm in arm with the whore of Babylon and rattling a cocktail shaker. He’s evidently quite lost his train of thought. I sit beside Marcus, who settles himself, smiling expectantly. The minister fixes us with a look of profound dislike and then, stirring himself and clasping both sides of the rostrum, he resumes his sermon with a great revving throttle of phlegm and spittle.

  ‘Sinners repent or you will burn. Burn. Bu–rrn!’ he exclaims, rolling his Rs with an impressive, percussive rumble.

  At the conclusion of twenty-five minutes of sin, hellfire and fury, he pauses, spent and breathless. His white hair is plastered to his cheeks with sweat and his countenance is as red as the fiery pits he’s described in such thrilling detail. The congregation nod and murmur their approval. This isn’t sufficient for Marcus who’s clearly enjoyed the whole performance immensely.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ he shouts from the back, rising to his feet, clapping loudly. ‘Splendid.’

  ‘I do like a bit of passion,’ he whispers to Sal and me, not at all quietly. ‘I liked the bit about buggery. Very rousing.’

  Sal hushes him. ‘No one applauds sermons.’

  ‘You’re American. Things are different here,’ says Marcus.

  ‘No. They don’t applaud them in England either,’ says Sal, firmly, trying to shush him.

  ‘It really isn’t done,’ I agree.

  ‘Well, it is by me,’ huffs Marcus, unabashed.

  While I’m amused, I think it rather doubtful that any of these people will sing for us now. The service is concluded. There is no music nor singing of any kind. We join the throng and follow them out into the brisk sunshine. It’s a glorious day, hot and cloudless. A fat seagull basks atop the war memorial and the threatened hellfire seems unlikely.

  ‘Splendid service,’ says Marcus, clasping the minister by the hand.

  The minister grimaces, muttering begrudging thanks while trying to extricate his hand. The parishioners circle, curious.

  ‘We’re looking for some singers and musicians,’ says Marcus, beaming round at the crowd. ‘We’d like to hear some old songs of Scotland.’

  The minister quivers and closes his eyes. ‘Today is the La-rd’s day,’ he declares.

  ‘Yes, jolly good,’ says Marcus, his smile becoming fixed and tight.

  ‘We do not make music on the La-rd’s day. It’s a day of prayer. Prayer and contrition.’

  ‘Oh, I’m terribly contrite,’ says Marcus. ‘But we must have music, mustn’t we, Fox?’

  I nod. I’m always on the side of music, whatever the argument, whatever the consequences. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  The minister can take no more. He turns to his parishioners, blazing with righteous fury. ‘No immodest songs. No sinful songs filled with lust. No songs for these’ – he reaches for a word sufficiently damning – ‘English gentlemen.’

  The parishioners shake their heads – they wouldn’t dream of it, not at all. Sal takes Marcus’s hand and gently draws him away. I follow, finding myself both amused and irritated. We meander back to the cottage.

  ‘I’m not sure that you have a future as a song collector, old sport,’ I say. ‘The trick is to coax it out of them.’

  ‘Bugger them. Sod the lot of them,’ declares Marcus and I realise that he’s filled with a bright anger. I can almost see it bounce off his skin like the glare on the surface of the water in the bay. ‘We’re having music on the bloody beach tonight,’ he announces.

  He stops walking and turns to face Sal and me, squinting in the harsh midday sun.

  ‘Are you Christians?’

  I shrug and shake my head. ‘Sorry. Pagan agnostic,’ I say, not because it’s really true but because I heard someone say it once and I liked the sound of it. Religion to me means dull mumblings in a frigid church while my stomach gurgles in expectation of Sunday lunch. I associate God with tedium and the anticipation of Yorkshire pudding.

  ‘I’m a Christian,’ says Sal.

  ‘And so am I,’ says Marcus. ‘And I’ll be damned to hell before I let any dead-hearted Presbyterian shit of a minister tell me that God doesn’t like music. God is in the music. Any savage knows that.’

  We reach the cottage garden where the gang are still lolling on the furniture on the beach.

  ‘Rehearsals, Vivaldi’s Gloria. Twenty minutes,’ snaps Marcus.

  The assorted guests pause for a moment, watching him, and then, grasping that he’s transformed from affable host to conductor, they rise and return to the house, metamorphosing themselves from idle sunbathers into musicians, albeit reluctant ones. Sal and I do not have instruments, and I’m not quite sure how we fit into all this. I’m just starting to wonder whether perhaps this might be a good moment for us to slope off together and go for that swim when Marcus turns to us, cool and unsmiling.

  ‘You’ll sing treble,’ he says to Sal. ‘And you,’ he says, looking at me, ‘are the tenor.’

  With a sigh, I accept that even though the part is hopelessly beyond me, it’s pointless to refuse.

  Marcus conjures scores from a trunk in his bedroom. I understand now why all his clothes are so crumpled and grubby. He has brought only a couple of shirts with him; the remainder of his luggage is taken up with music – not merely the score but parts for each instrument in the orchestra. A dozen of us are staying at the cottage – in addition to Marcus, myself and Sal, there are five violins, a viola, a clarinet, an oboe and a cellist. Marcus bemoans the lack of flutes and absence of a double bass.

  ‘And it really is too bad that there isn’t a harpsichord.’

  None of us dares to remark how ludicrous this is. I picture a harpsichord strapped to the lurching fishing boat, and want to laugh. The moment Marcus picks up his baton he gains gravitas and power. He holds instant authority, and we obey him instinctively and immediately as though he were wielding a pistol as opposed to a switch of wood. The piece also requires a full choir, not a single soprano and a tenor of limited skill, but I don’t question him about that either.

  He thrusts a score at Sal. ‘Here. Go and practise. Help Fox. C
ome back in a couple of hours to play it through with the orchestra. We’ll have the “Domine Deus” and the “Qui Sedes”.’

  Now as Sal leads me away, I follow her with a feeling of utter dread; all my delicious excitement has been thoroughly trampled. I’m furious with Marcus for inflicting this upon me and furious with myself for not pointing out to him that I’m quite incapable of singing such a part. Even if I had a month to prepare, I wouldn’t be up to it.

  Sal, sensing my despondency, slides her hand into mine.

  ‘Don’t worry. Ignore the bluster. It’s only for fun.’

  ‘For you perhaps. The rest of you are professional musicians. I’m—’

  At this I’m lost. I don’t know what I am. I’m a composer with a single, unfinished symphony. We reach the far end of the strand. Disjointed snatches of Vivaldi curl around to reach us.

  ‘I don’t want to make an utter fool of myself,’ I say eventually.

  ‘You won’t do that,’ she says with a smile. ‘Let’s walk a while first. It’s hopeless trying to learn something when you’re tense.’

  To hell with Marcus and his ridiculous game, I decide. ‘Never mind walking. Let’s swim.’

  Sal raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s gonna be really cold.’

  I shrug. ‘Well, if you’re chicken . . .’

  She laughs and punches my arm with surprising force. ‘Never.’

  I strip off with considerable eagerness before Sal can change her mind. Naked except for my shorts, I hurry down to the water’s edge and turn to watch her with frank interest. She blushes under my scrutiny, but I don’t look away. She’s thin but strong and lovely like the slender stem of a young hazel. I can see the sharp ridge of her hipbones beneath her skin, and yet as shyly she turns away from me, I can’t help noticing that her bottom is nicely rounded. She races down to the sea and crashes into the water, leaping into the waves belly down with a tremendous splash, and gives out a great scream.