by Alan Millard
‘I was so sorry to hear about Howard,’ she said. ‘Did you know him well?’
‘Only for a few days sadly but I think I came to know him as well as anyone could.’
‘He wasn’t the easiest person to get to know but his musical ability was prodigious. I’ve never before or since had a pupil like him. Did he still play?’
‘He did and beautifully too on a Steinway grand. While I was with him he played me several of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Do you know them?’
‘I do. They’re not easy to perform but nothing was too difficult for Howard. How did you come to meet him?’
‘He invited me to stay before the New Year.’ I told her how he’d gone to university and become a successful architect. She asked if he’d been married, where he’d worked and other questions most of which I could answer with confidence. Noticing that she kept one eye on the clock and knowing her next pupil was due to arrive I brought up the matter of the funeral and asked if there was any chance of her attending. Her face dropped as soon as I mentioned the day. I could tell she was genuinely fond of Howard and wanted to be there but her answer came as a disappointment. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’m committed to the local primary school every Friday. They’re starting rehearsals for their spring concert and I can’t disappoint them. I help them out on a voluntary basis every Friday as they don’t have a music teacher. If only it had been on another day. All I can say is my thoughts will be with you and with Howard of course.’
Howard required more than thoughts to fill the pews but I thanked her and left. I glanced at my watch. The Care Home was a mile or two away on the town’s western outskirts. It would take less than an hour to get there on foot and I needed the exercise. The wind had dropped and the rain had eased to a thin drizzle as I walked at a steady pace along the main road. Although the warmth in the bungalow had dried the bottoms of my trousers I kept to the inside of the pavement to prevent them from being soaked again by spray thrown up from the traffic. I arrived at the large Georgian house sooner than expected. The pond at centre of the park where Howard fished for frog spawn had since been filled in and grassed over no doubt for health and safety reasons. I thought how lucky Howard and I had been to grow up in an age with unrestricted access to all manner of potential perils and with them the adventure and excitement no longer available to children. Immediately beyond the park at the entrance to the Home’s driveway I saw a large notice. The Grade 11 listed Georgian house and its grounds was up for sale with planning permission for five new dwellings. Undeterred I walked down the drive hoping to find the Care Home still occupied and someone who knew of the children’s home but the place was deserted. I stood on the empty forecourt staring at the front door. I pictured Howard as a boy leaving and entering on countless occasions, going and coming from school or setting off for the pond in search of his precious tadpoles. I could see Mr. Bidgood’s Ford Anglia waiting outside to whisk him away to his new life. I thought of the building’s history and wondered about its original owners and where the forsaken children and elderly residents whose first and last home it had been were now living or laid to rest. I could have stayed dreaming about its past for longer but I knew it was pointless. The rain was getting heavier again so I raised my umbrella and with a regretful sigh began the long trek home.
After a lazy Sunday I woke on Monday with renewed optimism planning to visit the grammar school and Hoskins, Dyer and Blake. Howard’s old seat of learning was now a comprehensive school. I went to reception and pressed the buzzer. Through the sliding glass I could see a middle-aged man and a young woman sitting and tapping away at their computers. The man came to the hatch and asked what I wanted.
‘I’d like to see the headmaster,’ I said. He informed me that Ms Parker-Farr was the headteacher and asked if I had an appointment. On learning I hadn’t he told me to wait while he went to see if she was available. He disappeared through a door at the far end of the office and came back a few minutes later. ‘She can see you in about a quarter of an hour,’ he said pointing towards some chairs. ‘You can take a seat over there.’
Returning to his desk he mumbled something to his female colleague and left me to find one of the seats lined up in the corridor. I felt like a pupil again, full of apprehension waiting to be summoned by the headmistress. My unremarkable schooldays were spent in a secondary modern school. I’d never met the headmaster, a short, irascible, Napoleonic figure who hid away in his office all day and only put his head above the parapet for morning assemblies. I had on one occasion been sent to the deputy headmistress for some misdemeanour and I felt now as I had then. I looked at the aphorisms displayed on the walls, Courage is grace under pressure, Without fear there cannot be courage and Believe and you’re halfway there. They did nothing to dispel my anxiety. Turning my attention to the clock I watched the minute hand judder forwards at fifteen second intervals. After nearly half an hour I was about to change my mind and leave when the man appeared at the hatch. ‘Ms Parker-Farr will see you now. Go through the door to the second room on the left.’ He pressed a buzzer to open the door and I found the headteacher standing inside waiting for me. She led me to her office and invited me to take a seat.
Ms Parker-Farr looked young enough to have been my granddaughter if I’d had one. She wore a smart, pinstriped suit over a white blouse and looked more like a fashion model than a headteacher with her perfectly-groomed hair, immaculate make-up and charming smile. I felt instantly at ease with her and was sure she’d be able to help. Not knowing where to begin I gave her a garbled account of how Howard had been a star pupil at the school gaining a place at Cambridge. I told her what inspirational teachers Miss Carter and Mr. Clinic had been, what a brilliant pianist Howard had become even though he’d studied architecture, how he’d recently died and how pleased I would be if Miss Carter or Mr. Clinic could come to his funeral. Ms Parker-Farr listened patiently as I prattled on until I stopped to take a breath.
‘When was Howard a pupil here?’ she asked.
‘Well, I suppose it would have been some fifty years ago. He was in his late sixties when he died.’
‘I see. So Miss Carter and Mr. Clinic would be in their eighties or nineties now I imagine.’
‘Yes I suppose they would be.’ I could see where this was going but still stupidly hoped she might know something of their whereabouts.
Ms Parker-Farr gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘Most of the teachers from the grammar school left before or at the time of the reorganisation and those who stayed retired soon after. We have a very young staff now, almost entirely new appointments. Perhaps you should try the Education Office. They might be able to help.’
I apologised for taking up her time and left. As I walked away I heard the raucous sound of jazz being played on drums, clarinets and guitars blasting out from one of the classrooms and I realised how times had changed since the days of Nymphs and Shepherds with Miss Carter sitting sedately at the piano with her back to the class. Discounting the Education Office I doubted now if Hoskins, Dyer and Blake would be of any more help than Ms Parker-Farr had been but clinging on to the aphorism Believe and you’re halfway there I walked away from the school gates and made for town and the place where Harold had spent most of his working life.
As I climbed the steps to the porch I noticed the brass plaque screwed to the wall bearing the partners’ names. I paused for a moment recalling how Marcus Blake had stood on these very steps looking at the same plaque before setting off on that fateful holiday to the Isle of Wight. I could see it reflecting sunlight on that Sunday afternoon when Simon and Matthew returned from their Ninesprings nightmare. How many times had Gary walked passed it before his encounter with the harvester or Tom before his final night in the Mendip cave? I pictured it glistening in rain as Trevor and Liz rushed back from their lunchtime break at the Mermaid and thought of Paul at the Burrator reservoir who would
never see it again. And now it had cast its curse on Howard. I remembered our first walk when he’d pointed towards the clearing which would later be covered in bluebells and I understood why he’d said he’d like to invite me back in the spring before adding that it wouldn’t be possible. As I thought about Hoskins, Dyer and Blake I wondered why anyone chose to work there or what might happen to me if I dared to enter the building. But enter I did and spoke to the girl behind the reception desk. The outcome as I’d feared was much the same as it had been at the school except that on this occasion I never got further than reception. I learned that Mr. Dyer had died and that Mr. Hoskins was in a care home suffering from dementia. The firm though still retaining its name for the present was about to be taken over. Grasping at straws I asked if there might be a Liz or Elizabeth still on the staff though I wasn’t sure if Liz would ever have met Howard. The girl thought not but checked her computer before informing me no one named Liz or Elizabeth appeared on the staff list.
Why does it so often rain on sad occasions when just the occasion is sad enough without the additional dreariness? Having had no success at Hoskins, Dyer and Blake I whiled away my time until the day of Harold’s cremation. The rain was lashing down as I waited outside for the hearse to arrive. When it did I followed the coffin into the chapel to the recorded sound of the Goldberg variations as I’d requested. The duty vicar appeared and asked if I wanted to say any more about the departed’s life apart from the brief account I’d already given him. ‘No. let’s keep it brief,’ I said. For rest of the service I sat lost in thoughts of my own and was glad when it was over. The music resumed at the end of the proceedings. I consoled myself that at least one of Howard’s friends and possibly the one who’d known him best had been there to see him off. The vicar was standing by the door ready to offer his consolatory farewell. I shook his hand and as I was leaving glanced back at the chapel. In a moment of wishful thinking I imagined a young woman dressed in a pink blouse and long, black skirt sitting where I’d sat. I pictured her fingering a heart-shaped locket and giving me a radiant smile as I caught her eye. I left uplifted in the hope that she and Harold would be together at last. Not caring about the rain I drove home, poured a large whisky and raised my glass in a toast to Howard and Sarah.
From that day my life returned to some kind of normality. I settled back into my old routine - morning strolls into town for the paper, coffees and crosswords, afternoon naps and evenings in front of the television. I wanted nothing to change or disrupt it. But that was not to be. Although there’d be no more tales from Howard my own story was yet to be told.
9: Aria Da Capo - Bill
There were times after the cremation when I missed being at Howard’s house sitting in front of the blazing fire listening to the piano. It seemed a cruel waste after years of practise that fingers so skilled at their art would play no more. I recalled the Aria with its plaintive poignancy. It mirrored exactly the way I was feeling and though I would never hear Howard play it I longed to hear it again and decided to buy a recording.
On a dull day in late January I drove five miles to a shop in Sherborne that I knew would stock it. The assistant was an elderly man with rimless glasses. He was wrapping a parcel for a customer. ‘It’s an excellent edition,’ he said as he handed the package over, ‘I’m sure it will give you many happy hours of playing.’ I wondered if it might be the Goldberg Variations. As soon the customer left I asked the assistant if it had been.
He seemed bemused by the question. ‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘it was the first book of Beethoven sonatas. Is there something you were looking for?’
‘There is. Do you have the Goldberg Variations?’
‘The manuscript sir?’
‘No a recording please.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Harpsichord or piano? We have the Murray Perahia and Angela Hewitt recordings. If you were interested in an instrumental arrangement we have one by the Calefax Reed Quintet which is rather novel if not authentic. We also have...’
‘Any version,’ I said interrupting him. ‘Is there one you could recommend?’
He pondered a moment. ‘Glen Gould sells very well. A little idiosyncratic in its interpretation but surprisingly popular nonetheless.’
‘I’ll take it,’ I said, and left. At home with a glass of wine I played the Aria through several times as though I were back at Slade House listening to Howard. There were times after that when I’d listen to all thirty variations beginning and ending with that beautiful Aria. I learned to recognise those that Howard had played and dwelt on the memories they invoked. The names of Marcus, Mathew, Gary, Tom, Trevor, Paul and Howard all came to mind and prompted me to begin a new venture before the memories faded.
Soon after my marriage I’d bought a second hand portable Olivetti on a whim and using one finger I’d managed to get the hang of the QWERTY keyboard. Knowing the machine would be somewhere in the house I searched and found it gathering dust in a cupboard under the stairs. By mid-March I had typed all of their stories except my own which I continue to write.
Those few days spent with Howard changed my outlook on life. I stuck to my daily routine but became more sociable. I stopped and talked to people I’d only known by sight. I made new friends, learned about their lives and what they were doing. I took a renewed interest in my fellow club members and wanting to learn more about them I invited each in turn to my house for a meal beginning with Arthur Dawes. He was surprised when I caught him alone in the cloakroom and invited him to dinner. Despite having heard his ceaseless banter for several years I actually knew very little about him. He’d never mentioned his family or anything to do with his home life.
‘Come for a meal?’ he queried. ‘Any particular reason old man?’ He hedged at first but after some persuasion agreed to come.
We settled on the following Thursday which gave me time to plan the meal and make the necessary preparations which was something of an ordeal for me having never entertained since I’d been on my own. The upside was that it forced me into clearing away the clutter and giving the house a half-hearted spring clean. Howard made it seem so simple. He rustled up meals out of nowhere as if it were second nature. For me it was a major undertaking but on the night I’d be ready.
The main meal was easy thanks to the slow cooker I’d bought for Wendy which would cook the meat and vegetables by itself. For afters I made a jelly infused with tinned peaches which didn’t quite set and was a little on the runny side. When Arthur arrived I ploughed him with drinks so that by the time we came to eat any imperfections in the cooking would pass unnoticed.
The wine did its work. After a hesitant beginning when neither of us knew what to say in these new surroundings the conversation began to flow. By the end of the night I learned that Arthur had never married for reasons he kept to himself but which I guessed from all he told me about his feelings for women. I also discovered his early retirement as a headteacher had something to do with a misunderstanding on what he described as the accidental misappropriation of funds.
I told him about my own life, how I’d nursed Wendy when she had cancer and how much I missed her. I told him about my time with Howard and just a little of what Howard had told me. Arthur listened without butting in. I also played him my new recording but almost as soon as the Aria started I realised Bach was not to his taste and saved him from having to listen for more than a minute or two. When he left later than I expected I knew more about him than years of club banter had ever revealed. Over the coming weeks I invited the others and came to know more about each of them.
The real surprise which would lead to a closer relationship than any I’d had since Wendy came when I called at the local corner shop for my daily paper. The shop was unusually busy and I had to wait my turn at the end of the queue. I was standing in a dream unaware of the others in front of me when a woman leaving the shop stopped and put her hand on my arm.
�
�Mr. Hall,’ she said, apparently delighted to see me.
I recognised her at once. ‘Miss Price. What a pleasant surprise.’
‘As much for me as for you. I’ve been hoping to see you. I felt terrible having to rush off to my next pupil after you’d brought such dreadful news. There was so much I wanted to say and I didn’t think to ask where you lived until after you’d gone.’
‘As it happens I live not far from you. But never mind. How have you been keeping Miss Price?’
‘Call me Priscilla, please.’
‘And call me Bill,’ I said, glad to be on Christian name terms so soon especially after my new resolve to be more open with people. In spite of her dowdy clothes and schoolmarm appearance there was something about her coy smile and slender, birdlike physique that I found attractive. I guessed she was a little older than me though she still retained her firm features. She also had an endearing smile. Not wanting to be in everyone’s way we stepped outside and stood on the path. Momentarily lost for words we both spoke at once and laughed. I waited for her to continue.
‘How did the funeral go?’ she asked. ‘I felt so awful not being there and...’
She paused searching for the right word. ‘And guilty.’
‘Guilty? Why? You had other commitments.’
‘I could have cancelled them. Later I wished I had.’
‘What! Cancel going to the school! I’m certain that Howard wouldn’t have wanted that knowing why you were there. Nothing was more important to him than music.’
‘You’re kind to say so, but...’
‘But nothing. You’ve no reason to have any regrets.’
‘Thank you. How did it go, the funeral? Were many there?’
‘No, only me. But it was good. I arranged for a recording of the Goldberg variations to be played before and after the service. He’d have liked that.’