‘Is she a musician?’
‘She thinks so. She’d tell you so.’ Anna accepted a martini and lemon, much iced. ‘I need that.’ Her tongue played snakily along her lips.
‘Is James the only child?’
‘No. There are three. He’s the only one who does anything for her.’
‘He’s the youngest?’
‘No, he isn’t. He’s the soft-hearted one. And even he goes out and leaves me to cope.’
David looked over this fashionable woman, now much at ease, from her neat head to her polished and buckled boots. She moved elegantly manicured hands with restraint; she smiled with effect, like the breaking through of the sun on a cloudy day; her silver earrings played with the light. She might well have just been photographed in the green, plain, neck-high dress for the glossy magazines. All was simple, admirable, artificial. Phrases like ‘bath-fresh’, ‘jewel-clear’, ‘true love’ scrambled into his head from advertisements. No one could be as perfect as she looked.
For five minutes she was distantly amusing about old Mrs Talbot, who had spent the afternoon in inquiring how her son wasted his time, why they had no children, and when the house was to be properly furnished. Bright-eyed Anna reported that the old hag had accused her of hardness of heart, slovenly habits and infertility.
‘And you said?’
‘Nothing for a while, and then, when she wouldn’t stop, “You’re not enjoying yourself here, are you? You know where the front door is. I’ll fetch your coat.”’
‘And?’
‘She burst into tears. Like a child. Really loud. Then she calms down, for the next half-hour just sits there and lets out gulps and sobs at strategic intervals.’
‘Is she unhappy?’
‘Must be, to act as she does. But I’m not giving in to her. I hide behind the Sunday papers.’
‘And James?’
‘Oh, he’s like his father. He lets the old harpy sink her talons in, but at least he’s learned some sense now. He keeps out of her way.’
‘Leaves you to it.’
‘No.’ Anna raised her glass. ‘This afternoon was unusual. But he won’t put himself at her bidding quite as he used to.’ She laughed, drank. ‘For Christ’s sake – I don’t know why I’m giving you all this. Tell me about Mary, now.
She listened to his account, sitting motionless, without questions until he had finished.
‘They’re just doing the Semele?’ she asked, thoughtfully.
‘So it seems.’
‘James says it’s very good, but static. He reckons we went to a performance, Sadlers Wells, but I can’t remember a thing about it. He might be right. He usually is.’ She drained her drink, accepted a refill. ‘Yes, super. Same again. Exactly right.’ Now she gently pinched her upper lip between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, quick, regular movements. He guessed she was more disturbed by the afternoon’s collision with her mother-in-law than she’d admit.
She described a trip she and James had made to the States during the summer, and said she would like to live there. This surprised him.
‘This country’s finished,’ she said, ‘done.’
He waited but she made no additions.
‘And James, what does he say?’
‘Nothing. The matter hasn’t been raised. I’m telling you what I think. But if a good job came up there, he’d be off smartly.’
‘And leave his mother?’
‘And leave his mother.’
She liked the people they had met in the States; there was plenty going on; the cultural spectrum was very much broader. She admitted the low standards of television and journalism, but said their best people were better than England’s, even James thought so. ‘There are signs of life.’
‘Are you serious?’ David asked.
Anna nodded her head, thoughts elsewhere. He found no comfort in her silence, but she brightened again, signalled the change by tapping with her nails on the arm of the chair.
‘My proposition, now,’ she began.
She had been talking to Frederick Payne, the leader of the Trent Quartet, a friend and protégé of her husband’s. The Trent had been doing particularly well, with plenty of engagements, had begun to attract notice in the right places when Jonathan Mahon, their cellist, had applied for a job in Australia, his wife’s country. This was not, Anna said, altogether a tragedy in that they were not satisfied with Mahon’s attitude; he was too casual by half. Quite likely they would have turned him out, and his replacement, Robert Knight, had already been chosen. James had fixed Knight up with a job as a peripatetic string teacher, but he could not start until September. That left the quartet with a dozen concerts to cancel. Worse, they had been considering turning professional in a year’s time, and this would now have to be put back if not altogether abandoned.
‘Why is there so little notice?’ he asked.
‘Wheels within wheels. Jon has been secretive about his new job; he just sprang it on them. They’ve not been hitting it off, and he thought he owed them nothing.’
‘Rightly?’
‘Probably. But they’re in serious trouble. They’ve been looking around. And James has. Things didn’t work out. Yours was the only serious name to come up locally. Jim said I knew you better than he did, and Freddy got on to me to ask you.’
‘Why didn’t he ask me himself?’
‘You’re a bit of a nob, you know. Cambridge and high school. And your father’s who he is.’
‘If they were in such dire straits, they’d ring me if I was Gregor Piatigorsky.’
‘I don’t know about that. It’s just a stand-in. You’ll be dropped in the summer. And it’ll mean one hell of a lot of hard graft.’
‘Why me?’ David asked.
‘Fred says you’re a good enough player and a good musician. You might have some ideas while you’re with ’em. If they can’t get you they’ll have to bring a scratch player up from London or the College or the Academy for concerts, and that’s goodbye to continuity or practice. And expensive.’
‘Supposing I’m not up to standard? I’ve hardly done any chamber music since I’ve been up here.’
‘Never crossed anybody’s mind. But then it’ll be the substitute players. Nothing else for it. What do you say now?’ She waited equably. ‘They’re good. You’ll enjoy it.’
‘I’m not so sure of that. When do they practise?’
‘Tuesdays, Thursdays, though they’ll change that to suit you. The concerts are all Saturdays and Sundays except one, that’s a Wednesday, I think. If they’re not giving a concert, they rehearse Sunday mornings as well.’
‘Where?’
‘At Cyril Barton’s. But they’ll come here, if that’s any easier. I’ve brought a list, a programme and Jon’s scores. They’ll simplify programmes, not play so much, I mean, if you want that. Shall I fetch the music in? It’s in the car.’
He said nothing; he wanted to be left alone. She seemed in no hurry.
‘Shall I?’
‘You just hold your horses. I shall have to think about this.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Why can’t this Knight man come up for the concerts?’
‘He’s busy, and he lives too far away. He’s somewhere in Scotland. He’s said to be outstandingly good.’
‘Where’s he from?’
‘He’s Scottish, but he was at the Royal Northern with Fred. Won no end of prizes.’
‘But hasn’t got anywhere?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She stopped him with a finger. ‘They genuinely look forward to his coming, but they dread it. He’s a terror, and they think they might have got slack while Mahon messed them about.’
‘Have they?’
‘I doubt it, but that’s why they don’t want ad hoc performances. They need three hard sessions a week. Another thing, Fred thinks you’ll be good for them. You’re not just a scraper. You’ve had professional teaching, but you’re a musician, a cultured man. You’ll keep ’em on their toes.’
‘Counting my wrong notes.’
‘No, David,’ Anna said. ‘It might sound flattering, but it’s somewhere near the truth.’
‘What’s in all this for you?’ he asked.
‘I like to throw my weight about. Two, I’m interested in them. I’m quite interested in you, believe it or not. I’d like to see if they can make a go of it full time. It’s likely, even in these hard days. Jim thinks so. And here you are, with a big gap in your life at the right moment, and plenty to offer. It’s what you need.’
‘I’ve hardly time to turn round now.’
‘That’s the sort of man to ask, I think.’
They sat silently; she knew when she had said enough.
‘It’s tempting,’ he said. ‘Let’s look at your list and see if there are any immovable clashes with the dates in my diary.’
‘Good.’ She sipped, rose slowly. He let her out of the front door, where he waited. She returned with a battered music case, the leather scarred, one strap broken so that the metal bar dangled loose. ‘Here you are.’
The first two concerts were strictly classical, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, he’d played them at some time, but then Debussy, Bartok, Shostakovich, Britten.
‘No Elliott Carter,’ he said. He sat silently again, picking at his chin. ‘I’d like to have a rehearsal with them, and see then what I think about it.’
‘That’s what I would have suggested. How about Tuesday?’
‘Right. They realize I shan’t have had any practice?’
‘I expect so.’ She straightened up. ‘That’s it, then. You’ll go to Cy Barton’s, will you? His address is on the programme.’
‘Cup of coffee?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’ll be great. I can’t tell you how pleased I am, David. You’ll be good for them.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘If they’re going professional, they’ve got to offer something out of the ordinary. You can help.’
As they drank their coffee he felt lassitude as if he’d been out walking all day, but at the same time a certain satisfaction in that he was about to parallel Mary’s venture in New York. He’d have to abandon serious schoolmastering for a few weeks, as she’d abandoned husband, home, country, but now he fiercely wanted to do it. If he could come up to scratch, so could his wife. Superstitiously he felt he helped her by taking on this burden.
Anna was chattering; he barely listened. She refused more coffee, said she must go.
‘Will James be home?’
‘He was there when I came out.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Reading something. Planning something. Drinking. He’ll be pleased you’ve decided as you have.’
She kissed him, and made off into the night.
7
ON THE MORNING of David’s first rehearsal with the Trent Quartet, he received a letter from Mary, as did his mother.
The letters, identical in content, varied in tone. Rehearsals were long and tiring; the director, unassertive one minute, suddenly became arbitrary and inflexible the next. Talent abounded, but nobody seemed quite sure what to make of the opera so that one day would be spent in detailed rehearsal of movements which were modified on the next. They knew the music, certainly, but, but. David’s letter, written the day after Joan’s, seemed edgy, bad-tempered, while the one to his mother was sharp, witty, in high good humour.
Joan rang her son before he left for school, invited him round for lunch so they could exchange letters.
‘I oughtn’t to come. I’ve marking by the pile.’ He explained about his trial that evening with the Trent.
‘All the more reason to get out of the place for an hour. It’ll save you preparing anything this evening. Dad’s away again, so I’ll be pleased to see you.’
He enjoyed the meal and his mother’s conversation.
‘I’ll write to her this afternoon,’ she promised. ‘That’ll set your conscience at rest. You can dash her a few lines tomorrow. You can tell she’s tired.’
‘I wish to God she’d never gone.’
‘No, you don’t. She’s young, and she’s strong. As soon as they begin to perform she’ll be right as rain. Especially as she’s only doing the one opera.’
‘The whole thing baffles me.’
‘I don’t think it should. They always work like this, these theatre people. They seem incapable of sitting down before rehearsals and thinking out what they want.’
‘But wasn’t this Gage man an academic?’
‘They’re least able to make their minds up. That’s why they’re so violent defending their ideas once they’ve been forced into saying what they are. She’ll be right as ninepence.’
He left his parents’ house much cheered, replete and reassured. As he was on the point of driving off his mother tapped on the window of his car. He wound it down.
‘Do you know,’ Joan said, brightly still, ‘I think your Dad is looking forward to retirement. I was dreading it.’
‘When’s the fatal day?’
‘He keeps hinting he’ll need some months to tie his loose ends. But we’re freer now than we ever have been.’
‘How will he occupy himself?’
‘I’m not sure. I think we’re going to travel.’
‘Don’t you have any say in the matter?’
‘I’m only a poor, weak woman.’ She laughed heartily, with irony. ‘Mary will be pleased about this Trent thing. But don’t go knocking yourself up.’
‘No fear of that.’
‘You’re too like your father. Once he’s got the bit between his teeth, there’s no stopping him.’
He noticed as he turned the corner of the street she was still out there on the pavement.
The afternoon’s lessons went by habit, but seemed none the worse for that. After he’d picked at his tea, he tried to practise, but found himself lacking in willpower. When he had played a difficult passage, he’d little idea whether or not he’d done it well, only that he had not performed it badly. He tried to force his whole attention on the music, but failed, and turned dismally to the television. If he’d anything about him, he instructed himself, he’d write to Mary, or use the spare hour marking essays, but he attempted neither, and was unreasonably glad when he could lock up and go out.
He arrived five minutes early, but the other three were already assembled. They shook hands, and Frederick Payne mumbled through the expected welcome. David knew them all, if not intimately. The room in which they practised was upstairs, a square, thirteen by thirteen feet, without carpets, with four chairs, four stands, an upright piano and a large standard lamp the only furniture. The floorboards shone varnished, and the whole room gave the impression of a recent spring cleaning. Though the radiators were hot, David touched one, Cyril Barton, the violist, whose house this was, brought in a two-bar fire, ‘Just in case.’
‘We’ll do the Mozart first,’ Payne said, mildly enough. In B flat, Köchel 458. ‘We thought a quick runthrough tonight would be in order. To give you some idea.’ They were all intent on their instruments, tuning, rubbing rosin on the bows, raising lowering, shifting stands, making sure they could see their books or turn the leaves. ‘Let’s get the rhythm right if we can.’ He was not speaking directly to David. ‘Forte.’ He glanced over at Walter Wilkinson, the second fiddle, who was having trouble with final tuning. Wilkinson beamed back at him, alert.
‘New strings,’ he said. He seemed not to be excusing himself.
Payne, now satisfied they were ready, lifted his head and lilted away on the anacrusis. In no time David found himself, lifted himself with them, was one with three. He held his breath, or it was constricted in his chest; tense, bound, he still managed to keep up with his colleagues.
Where he did not match them was in volume. His instrument, he knew, was superior to any of theirs, capable of a larger sound, but the others outsoared him. It was as if the whole of their bodyweight were concentrated on to their fiddles, so that these spoke with a large, steely to
ne, not only powerfully broad, but with a cutting edge, each note strong from the initial impact of bow on the string. This magnificent forte had nothing laboured or brutal about it; it was loud because the composer demanded it, but lucid, inherently musical. They were playing in readiness for a large hall where variations had to be made sharply. David leaned into his cello.
At the first double bar line Payne stopped them.
‘All right?’ he asked David. The man seemed to be smiling. He made no mention of the cellist’s slight fluff as he had moved into the C clef. Wilkinson was leaning back, testing his tuning with left hand only, his bow held out swordlike in front of him. A grin, a sneer of satisfaction was set on his bearded face. ‘We’ll do all repeats,’ Payne ordered. ‘Good for us. Right. Second time.’
They played without reserve, only stopping when someone asked for a repetition; Payne was immediately ready, naming the bar to which they were to return. David noticed that Cyril Barton sniffed loudly, at climaxes, whereas Payne’s face was inscrutable, narrow-eyed, unmoved as if the energy of his playing came from the wide shoulders, the flexible wrists. They did not talk much about interpretation, but when they repeated a passage they built each other up, learned, taught, combined, refined in concert, in keeping.
Oddly, they had more difficulty with the Minuet than with the following Adagio which they raised so that David found fingers singing in necessary eloquence above their supportive semiquaver accompaniment. Payne’s runs were free as birdflight, as perfectly controlled; his colleagues were no less technically graceful, emotionally alert. At the end of the movement the leader nodded towards his cellist.
‘Impressive,’ he said. Warmth of praise clashed with a phlegmy sarcasm, and he dashed off into the Allegro assai.
No sooner had they finished the Mozart than the order was given: ‘Beethoven.’ David wanted to pause, to savour the experience, to rest, to expand, but they’d dropped Mozart to the floor and were turning up op. 18, no. 2. Wilkinson, scratching his beard, he’d laid his violin for the moment in his case, raised some question of speed in the abandoned B flat, but Payne, who was frowning at the Beethoven, poking the page down with the tip of his bow, crossly surprised, David thought comically, that the composer had given the leader so full a first bar compared with the bland lengths allotted to the rest of them, wearily demurred.
Valley of Decision Page 8