On Wings of Song

by Peter D Wilson

telephoned to say their bus had broken down decisively in the midst of nowhere and they were still waiting to be rescued. Another choir had also failed to appear, owing to illness apparently, but among the half-dozen or so that did compete, ours didn’t disgrace itself. Reports in the host town’s paper were encouraging, and we were moderately pleased with the outcome.

  Cynthia was of course furious that we’d used her coach, but despite some muttering about “dirty work at the crossroads” she stopped short of suggesting that we’d somehow engineered the situation. To anyone else it was perfectly obvious that the mistake wasn’t ours, and that there was no more we could possibly have done to correct it. When her hire invoice came in, she did try to pass it on to us, but it was for nearly twice the quotation we’d accepted and we weren’t having that. In any case we’d already paid Johnnie’s bill and Barbara told her, none too diplomatically, to sort it out with the coach firms. Cynthia said something about legal action, but it wasn’t clear who she thought of suing, and according to the grapevine her husband pointed out that if she did try it on, the only people likely to gain anything from it would be the lawyers. Her best course would be simply to ignore her invoice and let the owners make an issue of it if they wanted to publicise their blunder. Naturally, her relations with Barbara were frostier than ever and there was no further communication between them about it, but as we heard no more of the matter it seemed she must have taken that advice.

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  Meanwhile, Barbara’s ambitions had expanded. Despite murmuring behind her back about delusions of grandeur, she now talked of opera, no less. Fortunately she didn’t aspire to Verdi or Puccini, still less to Wagner (“Too pagan” was the reason given for disregarding a tongue-in-cheek suggestion of the “Ring” cycle), but she thought that as “Dido and Aeneas” had been written for a school it shouldn’t be too demanding. Fred surprised everyone by daring to point out the fallacy in that argument: so was most of Vivaldi, and it was far from easy. Typically, Barbara brushed that aside. At least, to general relief, she wasn’t going to risk a fully-staged version, so no one had to memorise a part completely.

  Accordingly auditions were held, in some secrecy since no one wanted St. Cyprian’s to get wind of what was planned before we were ready. The first session went tolerably well, but quite clearly no one there was of anything like the calibre needed for the crucial role of Dido herself. Nothing daunted, Barbara canvassed people for another session the following week and had a special appeal, in more general terms, put in the parish notices.

  It evidently had some effect, and spirits rose as several fresh hopefuls turned up, only to sink again as one by one they were put through their paces. Then Joan Price arrived, apologised for being late and proved herself the only possible choice with her rendering of “When I am laid in earth” despite a few catty remarks about its being about the only place she hadn’t been. Actually I believe she was rather fastidious in such matters, but that’s beside the point. Afterwards Audrey Gibbs asked for a private word and objected on moral grounds, but for once I almost applauded Barbara for telling her first to mind her own business, and then when she persisted producing a quotation that people who were hardest on the more generous sins tended to go in for the meaner ones. It must have struck home as we never saw Audrey again; she was no great loss and had caused trouble before, so if anything that was a relief.

  There wasn’t much option for Aeneas, either. Herbert Smallman’s stature matched his name, while a diffident manner and a pale toothbrush moustache added nothing to his dignity, but he had undoubtedly the best of our tenor voices and could use it well. His looking anything but a hero hardly mattered, Barbara insisted. She produced an old record sleeve with a sardonic note that Aeneas was a hero simply by profession; he didn’t in fact have to do anything at all heroic in the plot, quite the reverse. The idea of so unimpressive a figure in a passionate love scene with the voluptuous Joan still boggled a few minds, but didn’t Samuel Johnson define opera as “an irrational entertainment”? Anyway, it was the best we could do. For the rest, we had quite a decent Sorceress, a tolerable Belinda, and a more or less adequate chorus of witches and sailors.

  Half-way through rehearsals, Mabel Goodwin brought some disturbing news. The daughter of an old school friend had asked her to stand as godmother to her child, something she was delighted to do, but she was told only later that the christening was to be at St. Cyprian’s. She could hardly escape notice on such an occasion, and the vicar did indeed remember her previous visit on reconnaissance, but his attention was of course mainly elsewhere.

  After the service, tea and biscuits were offered in the church hall, with something stronger for those who preferred it. Mabel clearly had to appear reasonably sociable but needed to keep her wits about her and steered clear of the alcohol. In the course of conversation, one of the parishioners asked where she came from and commented that someone had transferred from St. Cyril’s quite recently, a Miss Audrey Gibbs; did Mabel know her? Of course she did, but disclaimed familiarity, and wondered what was coming. It seemed that Audrey had made a point of cultivating Cynthia Graham’s acquaintance and become quite thick with her, causing a certain amount of resentment in the process; it was apparently on her suggestion that a public recital by their choir was to be given on a particular date, which as Mabel realised just happened to be the same as had long been planned for our production.

  The town might just about provide a decent audience for one such event, but not for two on the same night or even in the same month, so this was evidently a bit of deliberate sabotage on Audrey’s part. We couldn’t change our date, and there was obviously no point in Barbara’s asking Cynthia to change theirs, so we were flummoxed until someone suggested that even if the principals to the dispute could never be brought to deal directly with each other, secondary figures might make some headway. After all, that was the way international business usually worked. But was there anyone with enough influence on Cynthia? And if we did find someone, who could make contact without immediately arousing suspicions?

  As it happened, Joan Price overheard this and came up with an idea: she worked in the same department as Cynthia’s brother and had a slightly better than nodding acquaintance with him. He had been widowed a few months earlier after a reputedly happy marriage, still seemed down in the dumps, had noticeably lost weight, and she had occasionally passed him looking dismally through café menus; why shouldn’t she invite him to come for a bit of decent home cooking, try to cheer him up and see if she could get anywhere that way?

  This seemed as good a scheme as any, especially (although no one actually said it) since Joan’s figure suggested at least competence in the culinary art. However, after she had left, Mavis Bannister was doubtful about the ethics of the scheme. Barbara had had a frustrating day and was in no mood for scruples. “For goodness sake! We’re not asking her to seduce him.”

  “That isn’t quite what I had in mind, but since you mention it, supposing she does? Wouldn’t we be responsible, at least partly?”

  “Look, I may be my brother’s keeper, but certainly not Cynthia’s brother’s. He’s old enough to look after himself, and it’s a kindly approach even if there is an ulterior motive. In any case, whatever she meant by trying to cheer him up, we don’t actually know that Joan’s such a man-eater; it’s only rumour - wishful thinking more than anything, I dare say.”

  Nevertheless there was a good deal of speculation on how things might turn out, and we waited eagerly for a report at the next rehearsal. Barbara tried to damp down expectations, especially among the more prurient (“We aren’t likely to get a blow-by-blow account, whatever may or may not have happened”) but that didn’t stop a fair amount of increasingly elaborate fantasising until she came down like a ton of bricks on speculating openly; indiscretions outside the circle might endanger the whole plan, so far as any sort of plan existed.

  The intention had been to take Joan’s report, supposing there was to be one, after the m
ain business of the evening, but people’s minds were clearly not on it so that after three or four fluffed openings, Barbara accepted the inevitable and asked Joan how her idea had worked out. Fairly well, it seemed: Gordon had shown some surprise at her invitation, but after a moment’s hesitation accepted rather more readily than expected. He proved very much the gentleman, turning up on the dot with an acceptable bottle of wine, did full justice to the meal, complimented her on her cuisine and when the time came to depart said with every sign of sincerity how much he had enjoyed the evening.

  In fact he had invited her to dine with him less than a week later at a restaurant, but Joan pointed out that none of those she knew was likely to produce a meal half as good as she could make at a fraction of the cost; not bragging, but realism. Gordon took the point, but was embarrassed by the arrangement’s being so one-sided with Joan doing all the work. He himself had never learned to cook beyond boiling an egg or at a pinch frying sausages and bacon, but that gave Joan the perfect opening for an offer of tuition. “Just in cookery!” she emphasised to us