by Gina Wilson
Susan stopped laughing. “That was a bit mean, Becky. I think you’ve really upset her.”
“Well, she’s so sneery sometimes. It gets me down.”
Barbara said: “I expect she was only trying to convince herself about not getting over-excited. She’s pretty jumpy.”
“Oh blast!” I said. “I can see you think I ought to go and apologize.”
“I’ll come too,” said Susan. “I was as bad laughing.”
“Oh, no, you stay here,” I said crossly. “It was my fault. I’ll do the crawling.”
I found Hermione on a bench in the cloakroom, weeping. “Oh, I’m sorry, Hermione,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be rotten. I shouldn’t have said about your nails. Nobody notices anyway and certainly the audience isn’t going to.”
Hermione dabbed at her eyes and looked at me coldly. “I’m not that vain,” she said. “I’m more grieved at your betrayal. How could you be so unfeeling?—I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”
“Oh, I’m not all that sensitive, really,” I retorted, still cross. “You’re the poetess, not me.”
“Are you jealous, Becky? Is that why you went for me?”
“Oh, a bit, I expect,” I said sheepishly. “And you were being a bit superior, you know, with all that stuff about how it wasn’t particularly special to be performing on a real stage.”
“Well, if you really want to know, I’m terrified!” she admitted suddenly.
“Oh, me too, Hermione!” I gasped, and in no time we were sitting there, side by side, holding our breath, hugging our knees, letting waves of delicious panic sweep us away together and squeaking that we’d just never manage. Then Hermione pulled herself together, straightened her gymslip and said sagely: “That’ll have done us the world of good, you know, Becky, letting off steam like that.”
“I suppose it will.”
“Actually, it’s better to be nervous. It makes for a more artistic performance. The most sensitive people are always nervous—it’s only unfeeling clods who never feel a thing.”
We were friends again. The excitement of the concert ran through me like shivers for days on end. I was totally happy. The day of the concert dawned at last. We were given the afternoon off school and instructed to be at the hall in Heatherton by quarter to seven. The programme started at seven and it was up to each individual to make her way back-stage at least two items before her own appearance. Mrs. Briggs was babysitting for Dory, and Jo was coming with Mother and Father and me. He was almost as excited about coming as I was about performing and Mother and Father got quite snappy with us on the way. I was worried that my fingers would never warm up in time for the duet, which was item number three. Mother sat in the back of the car beside me chafing them between hers all the way to Heatherton, while Jo bounced about in the front seat next to Father, knocking the gear lever and hand-brake with his knees. Father threatened to turn the car round and go home if he couldn’t sit still, but we all knew those were empty words.
“Your hands feel warm as toast to me,” said Mother. “You’re making a fuss.”
“It’s just on the outside they’re warm,” I said. “They’re chilled through … Oh! Where’s my music?”
“Daddy’s got it in front.”
“Oh, thank Heavens!—Oh, I hope there’ll be time to go to the lavatory.”
“Of course there will be. Do you really need …? You’ve just been.”
“Well, I need to go again.”
“So do I,” said Jo.”
“Nobody’s bothered about you,” I snapped. “You’re not performing.”
I felt a lot better after we arrived, and Mother and Father found good seats and draped my coat over the one beside them so that I could sit with them when not required elsewhere. I scuttled back-stage and found Barbara already sitting there amongst the gathering hordes of the percussion band and a choral-speaking group. The youngest of the band would have been no more than seven and excitement was nearly getting the better of some of them despite the music mistress’s soothing tones. She came and asked Barbara and me to help organize and equip the various sections with their instruments, and we forgot ourselves briefly in the business of sorting out triangles and cymbals and drum-sticks. Then it was time to begin, and they all trooped away, leaving us alone with the choral speakers, who were muttering to themselves, sotto voce, and striking their brows in agony as some line or other momentarily escaped them. Then they were gone and we were joined by people who would be going on stage after us.
And then it was our turn. Someone opened the door, beckoned us out, and we stole into the wings just as the choral speakers were finishing. We waited there with Miss Todd while they smiled and bowed to endless applause … And we waited while they left the stage the other side … And we waited while two fathers, who’d volunteered to assist, pushed forward the grand piano … And we waited while some silly parents thought it amusing to applaud them. My hands were clammy by now and my knees wobbling. Then, just as I’d decided to turn and run for it, Miss Todd, who’d had a comforting hand resting in the smalls of our backs, gave us a sudden push and said: “Off you go!” And we walked on. Clapping started at once, and we stood side by side and bowed, and then sat down and arranged our stools in the total silence that followed. And then we just started and after a few bars I knew it was sounding lovely. I began to enjoy myself as never before. My fingers danced in all the right places and Barbara’s chords plodded beefily around at the bottom. I began to wish the piece was twice as long as it was. I wanted to be on stage for hours. Then and there I decided to scrap poetry and become a concert pianist. We reached the end, and, as our hands bounced up from the final chord, applause cracked out from all sides. We shook hands, bowed several times, and walked off. I could hardly bring myself to step out of the limelight.
In the wings, Barbara said: “Not bad!”
“Not bad! We were tremendous!” I seized her by both hands and spun her round.
“Rebecca Stokes, control yourself. You’re not the only performer this evening,” snapped the history teacher, pointing on stage to where a recorder group was already assembled, whistles to lips.
I wasn’t very crushed, though, and Barbara and I bustled euphorically away and found a dim passage to rave in before we made our way to the auditorium to sit with our parents for a while. Mother and Father were both shiny-eyed and thrilled at how well I’d done but gave me only muted praise lest eavesdropping parents round about should think them over-indulgent. A lady behind leaned forward and whispered: “Beautiful, dear” in my ear. I sat in a haze of glory while other performers came and went and, to my shame, scarcely heard a word or note of what was going on … until the last item before the interval. This was Hermione’s spot.
A senior girl, who’d been playing a terribly difficult piece by Beethoven, went off to a tremendous burst of applause; then one of the assisting fathers brought forward a small cane chair and placed it at the front of the apron-stage; then he disappeared and, after a few seconds, on came Hermione, just herself, in blouse and gymslip, no notes or exercise books or anything. Everyone craned forward to take in this delicate little slip of a thing. “Hermione Phillips recites her own work,” the programme simply stated. She sat down, straight and composed, clasped her hands on her knees and crossed her feet at the ankles. The chair had been so positioned that she wasn’t facing the audience straight on; we had a three-quarter view of her as she cleared her throat, lifted her head, gazed towards a far corner of the auditorium and began to speak. As she proceeded she became more animated, screwed her face up as if searching for words to describe her feelings, swept her pale brow with the back of a hand, tossed her curls. I thought it all most moving. She was brilliant. The compositions and the performance were flawless. Certainly, when she’d finished, there was a good deal of clapping. I just looked at Mother and sighed: “Isn’t she marvellous!”
Mother said through her own loud clapping: “Very good indeed.”
But, when we
all rose and thought about shuffling into the foyer for coffee and biscuits, I heard the lady behind say to her friend: “What an affected little piece! Clever, though, I suppose.”
“A right madam, I imagine!” said the friend and then they started chatting on some other topic.
I could hardly contain my indignation. Hadn’t they listened to the poems at all? Hadn’t Hermione’s phrases and tones won through to them? I looked round, expecting other parents to be still breathless from the impact of the verses but, to all intents and purposes, not only her performance but the entire first half of the concert might never have occurred. The red velvet curtain now closed off the stage, and parents, almost in relief, were turning away from it and heading for the exits, hailing friends, waving, smiling, and searching pockets for coffee money and cigarettes. I felt very flattened for a second, but suddenly a little warm hand slid into mine and I looked down into Jo’s round, pink, overawed face.
“It’s terribly good, Becky,” he said. “And you were wonderful!”
“Oh, Jo! You are nice. Did you really think so?”
“Oh, yes. People round about were clapping ever so hard and saying nice things. Mummy cried a bit, though.”
“Cried!”
“She wiped her eyes.”
“You ass, Jo! That’s not proper crying. That means she thought I’d done well.”
My spirits soared again. I tapped Father on the shoulder. “What did you really, truly, think of Barbara and me?” I whispered, so that nobody else in the mob squeezing its way down the centre gangway could possibly hear.
“Very, very good,” he said firmly. “Mummy and I were terribly proud.”
I glowed. “And what did you think of Hermione?” I whispered.
He paused. “I’m not terribly good on poetry,” he said. “You should ask your mother. But it was a nice idea to have it on the programme. Made a nice little change.”
“Mummy,” I whispered, surprised at his response, “what did you think of Hermione?”
“Nice, love. But not a patch on you; the duet was really lovely.”
In the foyer we met lots of other girls and parents. The Fosters pushed their way over, trying to shield joggling coffee cups. “Didn’t the girls do well?” said Mrs. Foster, and Barbara and I shrugged and smiled. The Phillipses were there too, with two of the brothers and Horti. “Bright lass you’ve got there,” said Father to Mr. Phillips. Mr. Phillips beamed broadly: “Runs in the family, sir,” he said. And then he clapped Barbara and me on the shoulders. “Bravely played, girls! A masterly performance!”
Hermione was nowhere to be seen and eventually, despite my reluctance to forego further congratulations on my own performance from the thronging parents, I whispered to Barbara: “Let’s go and find Hermione. I’ve a feeling her poetry didn’t go down all that well. Perhaps she knows.”
“It was O.K., wasn’t it?” said Barbara.
“Well, I thought so, but other people don’t seem to be as impressed as I thought they would be.”
“Some people just don’t go for poetry, of course …”
We took Jo back-stage with us. I thought he should have a bit of a treat, and it didn’t seem fair to leave him stranded with a crowd of adults. He was glad to come, but clung tightly to my hand. We found Hermione sitting on the floor in the same passage where we’d skipped about in delight at our earlier success. She looked limp and downcast. I ran straight up and said buoyantly: “Well done, Hermione! It was terrific!”
She looked up hesitantly. “Was it really all right, Becky?”
“Course it was. You looked so poised and we could hear every word and you know I think your poetry’s brilliant.”
She stopped biting her nails and stood up slowly. “Hello, Jo,” she said, seeing him. “It’s late for you, isn’t it?”
Jo nodded. “You were very good,” he said shyly. “Mummy said so to Becky. I heard her.”
That pleased her. “Really?” she said. “Oh, I’m so glad. I’d rather lost my nerve. I just felt too embarrassed to face anyone.”
“You silly,” I said. “It’s lovely having all the parents praising you, isn’t it, Barb?”
“Quite nice,” admitted Barbara modestly.
Then Hermione remembered that we had also performed. “Oh, you two were splendid,” she said hastily. “No mistakes at all, were there?”
“I don’t think there were,” said Barbara, “though I thought we were going to lose the time at one stage.”
“Oh, yes!” I agreed. “Just for a tiny minute when the slow bit ends and it gets fast again. What a panic! But we were O.K. I don’t think anyone noticed.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think so.”
Susan came dashing along the passage. “There you all are! I’ve been looking everywhere.” I hadn’t seen Susan earlier during the evening as we hadn’t been on stage together. But the recorder group was first on after the interval. We were both in that.
“Hi, Sue! Is it time for us yet?”
“More or less.” She panted up. “Well done, everyone! It’s been super so far and you were all marvellous. Mummy and Daddy say they don’t know how I come to have such talented friends!”
“Well, we can’t begin to paint like you,” said Barbara, to make up.
“Oh, don’t worry, Barb. I’m not feeling small. I’ve enjoyed it all, honestly.” She obviously had.
“You’re a real good sport, Sue,” I said.
“Well, it’s my turn now, isn’t it?” she said. “Come on, Becky—I think we should get ready now. I don’t want to miss my go under the spotlight!”
Hermione and Barbara said they’d take Jo back to Mother and Father and offered him one hand each. He thought they were wonderful.
The second half went very smoothly and pleasantly and for most of it I sat with Mother and Father and told them little anecdotes about the performers. Towards the end I had to steal away back-stage because I was in the last item—a stirring effort by the massed voices of both the senior and junior choirs. The whole lot of us crowded into the wings just before the penultimate item, which I’d been quite curious about, though not unduly as I wasn’t involved. “Local Folk Music,” the programme called it.
The silence which had always fallen between items after the applause had died down became absolutely total as, of all people, Cora Ravenwing stepped forward. But the quality of that silence had changed—it had been expectant, hopeful, encouraging, for all the other performers, but now it seemed hostile and negative. My heart began to pound quite painfully. How could Cora begin to do anything in this atmosphere? What was going to happen? Might someone shout abuse or even hurl something at her?
Cora walked quite briskly right to the front of the apron-stage and stood there, face on to the crowd. And then she started to sing. And her voice was beautiful. Every note was pure and true; her phrasing was perfect; she sang like a bird, without effort or artifice, for the sheer joy of singing. And when she stopped singing she pulled out a whistle from her blazer pocket and started to play that before anyone could draw breath. Then she sang again, two hauntingly lovely little songs … and then she simply stopped and smiled down from the platform at the audience. There was only a second of silence. Nobody could resist her. The applause was overwhelming. There were cries of “Bravo” and “Encore”. We were even clapping in the wings. I didn’t look round to see who was clapping and who wasn’t or if anybody was checking me to see which I did. I just clapped till my palms stung.
Cora walked off the stage the other side. I saw Miss Todd bend to have a few words with her. Then Miss Todd walked on stage and held up a hand. “As you have obviously so much enjoyed the performance of our last pupil I have had a word with her and she is quite happy to provide a little encore.” Crack! The applause went up again and on came Cora to sing two extra pieces. She was perfect. It dawned on me that these were songs of her mother’s that she was singing. No wonder she had such grace and confidence out there; there was never any holding her given that i
nspiration.
The final performance of the choir was a bit of an anti-climax after that but nobody resented it. We were all rather proud that there had really been a show-stopper in the programme. It was strange, though—nobody mentioned Cora by name, neither fellow-pupils nor parents. People made remarks like: “Wasn’t that last little soloist fantastic?” and “A real natural that folk-singer,” and “That little dark-haired scrap stole the show, didn’t she?” It was as if they couldn’t quite bear to associate the singer who’d given them such rare pleasure with the child they’d virtually cast out from their midst.
In the car on the way home, however, Father, as usual, had no compunction about speaking his mind.
“I knew it from the start,” he declared. “I took to that little Ravenwing girl right away. Real spark. Real originality. It’s a disgrace the way she’s been treated by everyone. I think someone should put a stop to it. Ask her to the house whenever you like, Becky.”
“Oh, now, Edwin,” said Mother cautiously. “Is that wise?”
“Be blowed to wisdom of that sort!” snorted Father. “That child is perfectly all right. More than that—she’s got more talent than the rest of them put together.” I felt momentarily deflated; perhaps I wasn’t destined for the concert-hall after all.
“But, Edwin, just because a child can sing doesn’t mean she’s perfect in every other respect too. Remember Mrs. Briggs’s tales … and certainly the other parents can’t stand her.”
“They applauded her roundly enough tonight.”
“Indeed they did—but that just shows they’re prepared to give praise where it’s due. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve changed their minds about her basically.”
“Silly lot, then … We’ll soon see what they think anyway …”
“Oh, Edwin! Promise you won’t say a word. The whole evening will be ruined. And it’ll be the second social disaster we’ve had on account of that little waif.”
Mother and Father had been busy in the interval inviting the Fosters, Phillipses and Spensers back to the house for drinks. They’d asked Mrs. Briggs to set things out in the hopes of a little post-concert party and Mother was delighted that everyone was coming. As it happened, the gathering was great fun and nobody went home before half-past eleven. I didn’t hear much of the adult conversation because we girls were bustled through to the kitchen, where Mrs. Briggs had left us a spread of sausages and crisps, but I did hear Father say to Mr. Phillips: “The Ravenwing child seems especially talented, don’t you think?”