by Jean Stubbs
The music critic for The Post once wrote in his fervour, ‘I even delight in the tuning-up! Such vivacity and dedication! Such a promise of the cultural feast to come!’ To which Ambrose Longe unkindly responded by saying that he could endure the tuning-up if only they would decide upon the same note.
This evening the Warburtons scraped and twanged with more than their usual energy, paused for a few hushed and portentous moments, and then pitched into Bach without mercy.
A faint line appeared between Naomi Blüm’s black brows, which deepened as the concert progressed. Innocent of her reaction, they sawed away conscientiously, pausing only to turn over the wrong pages and to smile and nod at one another in a haze of self-congratulation.
Having executed Bach and acknowledged the applause, they made way for the hostess herself, who refused to be intimidated by the Moonlight Sonata, and made a number of gallant runs at it before the piece submitted. As Ambrose Longe once said on a similar occasion, ‘There are sometimes advantages in being stone-deaf. Let us hope that Beethoven can only hear in heaven!’
Breathing and bowing deeply, the triumphant pianist tried to catch Naomi’s eye, but her guest looked steadfastly elsewhere.
Finally, Haydn was put between the shafts and taken out for a family drive. They set off together at a quick trot, but he ditched the Warburtons in the second movement, leaving them to stagger home one by one behind him.
There was another pause until the audience realised that the performance had ended, and then everyone except Naomi clapped very hard and shouted, ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ raising their eyebrows in silent acclaim, shaking their heads in wonder and crying, ‘Never heard them on such form before!’
Naomi had no wish to hurt anyone’s feelings. She struck her gloved palms lightly together in token payment. Her smile was a mere stretch of the lips. She became aware of her frown and erased it. She hoped they would not ask her what she thought, but of course they did.
‘And we require you to be horridly truthful, Miss Bloom!’ cried Mrs Warburton, shaking her forefinger archly at her guest of honour. ‘We know you have heard a great deal of good music on your travels, and our poor efforts will seem nothing beside that. So do scold us. We are always willing to learn.’
Her guests glanced at one another in smiling disbelief. Such modesty, they were thinking.
Naomi replied carefully, ‘A most commendable effort.’
Mrs Warburton’s smile began to ice over.
‘Of course, we are not professionals,’ she said, with tremendous emphasis on the word.
Naomi unfortunately seized upon this truth as an explanation.
‘No, no, I quite understand,’ she said graciously. ‘I was not judging you as professionals.’
Mrs Warburton could hardly believe her ears.
‘I fear I made one or two mistakes in the sonata,’ she offered, and her smile was a false ghost of itself.
Naomi hesitated.
‘You know I did!’ cried Mrs Warburton.
She laughed lightly. She struck Naomi’s hand playfully, but not quite so lightly, with her fan. She dared her to agree. Behind her, a semi-circle of curious faces, ready to look hostile in a moment, waited for an answer.
Embarrassed, a little afraid, Naomi endeavoured to reassure her.
‘Well, that is no matter. Even good musicians make mistakes.’
There was a short silence.
‘Even good musicians,’ Mrs Warburton said thoughtfully. ‘Thank you, Miss Bloom.’
Ambrose stopped the printing-press.
‘She said what?’ he cried, delighted.
Mary giggled, drew herself up to imitate Naomi, and repeated the comment which was that moment enlivening the tea-tables of Millbridge.
‘She’ll never be asked there again!’ said Mary in mock horror.
‘Fortunate Miss Bloom!’
‘You have been rude about them, too. Often.’
‘Ah! But I meant to be rude, and they expect it of me. Miss Bloom told the simple truth and that’s much more devastating.’
‘But poor Naomi minds very much, and blames herself dreadfully.’
‘The lady obviously lacks a proper opinion of her talents. I must ask her to write my music column for me.’
He spoke idly, but Mary cried, ‘Oh, why not? I sometimes feel that she finds life a little dull. And she knows so much about music.’
‘Then she is over-qualified for the post. Her readers know so little. I should not dream of subjecting her to further ordeals.’
‘Oh, don’t be a tease, Ambrose. She won’t expect to be paid.’
‘I couldn’t pay her, my dear girl. Well, well, I must get on. What have you done with your three brats?’
‘I left them at Thornton House while I came to tell you the latest gossip. Naomi loves having them.’
‘How very peculiar of her,’ said Ambrose unkindly.
‘And, Ambrose, it’s Naomi’s Calling Day today, and the only ladies to come were Warburton Enemies. It makes life very difficult.’
‘I should have thought it made life a great deal easier. If she can now make an enemy of the Enemies, she will be free of everybody. As I am — and you are.’
‘I am very popular with everybody!’ Mary cried indignantly.
‘Trot away, pisey cat!’ said Ambrose, and started up the printing press to indicate that he had done with gossip for that day.
‘Oh, you!’ said Mary rudely, sticking out her tongue.
She ran down the steps into the market square, and was lost in a crowd of Tuesday shoppers.
The April evening had come in so quickly that the lamplighter made his rounds an hour earlier than usual. Now the gas lamps shone like angels down the wet, dark High Street, each wearing a misty halo.
The York Mail rattled into Millbridge, punctual to the minute, and as it passed Thornton House the long clock in the hall chimed nine strokes of approval. This reminder of time passing caused the lady of the house first to judge the degree of steam rising from a silver spirit-kettle, secondly to inspect the contents of a silver muffin-dish keeping nice and hot on the hearth, thirdly to lift the corner of one lace curtain and peer out, and finally to sit down again. She had repeated this routine two or three times, for her guest should have been here long since.
It was interesting to observe that though Naomi Blüm had kept most of Charlotte Longe’s furniture, and the layout of the parlour was pretty much the same, the room had a distinctly foreign air.
Perhaps the carpet was too new, lush as a golden meadow beneath her bronze kid shoes. Perhaps the freshly upholstered chairs were too grand in their yellow velvet coats. Perhaps the degree of polish was too high, the gas light a little too bright, the fire too hot, the general effect too luxurious. Whatever the reason, the place was entirely different, a fact of which its present owner remained delightfully unaware. For she believed she had re-created a typical English, Christian, middle-class parlour, and politeness had so far forbidden anyone to rob her of this illusion.
The sound of hooves and wheels brought Naomi out of her chair. The noise of the lion’s head doorknocker fetched her parlour-maid rapidly down the hall. In another moment Mary Vivian burst in out of the rain, carrying a bundled child, and full of explanations even before she had been divested of her wet coat and bonnet.
‘Oh, Naomi! Such a time as I have had getting here! Hal was home late, and I had waited dinner above an hour, and we had scarcely finished when someone came about the tunnel, so he went back again.’
Mary set the child down on the hall floor, where he stood wide-eyed, dripping quietly.
‘Then I ran round to the stables to tell Alfred we were ready for the carriage, and he was drunk again, Naomi! Dead drunk. So I harnessed the pony and trap myself — oh, do you think Joseph could take them over to the Royal George…?’
‘My dear, of course. But you should not have driven out alone at this time of night!’
‘Oh, I wasn’t going to be robbed of my evening, no matte
r what!’
The soft-footed manservant appeared, wearing a mackintosh, and within moments was heard driving up the High Street.
Mary knelt down, half-laughing, half-crying, and began to unwind the wet woollen scarf which bandaged her son from head to foot.
‘And then this naughty boy had a nightmare and would not be left alone, and I was afraid the two girls would wake up as well…’
‘Bring him into the parlour,’ Naomi cried. ‘He will be cold out here. Oh, Santo Vivian! What bad thing did you dream about?’
Mary was not possessive about her offspring, and allowed Naomi to carry the boy into the hot, bright room, to remove his outer clothes and to give them to the parlour-maid to dry. The reason for this personal attention was soon plain to see. The disposal of his tasselled cap meant that Naomi could stroke his black curls and kiss his scarlet cheeks, the lack of gloves allowed her to rub warmth into his small hands, and when she had unbuttoned his little overcoat she hugged him very hard.
Young Santo Vivian was a sturdy fellow, not long past his second birthday. Folk said how like his father he was, but the way he held himself and looked boldly round was William Howarth all over, and secretly the ironmaster’s heart rejoiced.
At first Santo stared at his hostess with solemn grey eyes, but gradually her blandishments made him smile, and the hug brought forth a shout of laughter. Whereupon Naomi laughed too, sitting back on her heels, loving him.
Tenderly the two ladies embraced, standing back to admire each other’s dresses before settling down by the fire; and at last Naomi could infuse the tea, order warm milk for her unexpected guest and cut a buttered muffin into strips.
‘I see you still take all three Millbridge papers!’ Mary cried irrepressibly, spying them on a side-table. ‘Have you not made up your mind whether you are for or against The Clarion, then?’
‘Must I be either?’ Naomi asked reasonably, tucking a linen napkin round Santo’s neck.
‘Yes, indeed! I like people to be positive in their opinions. My country, right or wrong, say I!’
Naomi held the cup of milk to Santo’s lips and answered teasingly but firmly.
‘Then you are wrong, say I!’
Mary was quiet for a moment, but soon plucked up spirit and began again.
‘Well, let us agree to disagree on that score. What do you think of our three respected papers?’
Naomi answered with devastating frankness.
‘The Herald is a shrewd teacher. The Clarion is a promising pupil. And The Post is best for lighting the parlour fire!’
‘Goodness!’ cried Mary, impressed. ‘We shall never get you married if you say things like that. No one cares for a clever woman. There are exceptions, of course,’ she added quickly, fearful of hurting her friend. ‘Aunt Cha was very clever and didn’t care what anybody thought, but that was as she grew old.’
Naomi drew the child onto her lap and wiped the butter from his chubby fingers with a fine cambric handkerchief, which brought forth an affectionate admonishment from Mary.
‘You should have babies of your own to spoil, Miss!’
‘Ah, if one could have them without the husband!’ Naomi replied.
‘Husbands are very nice creatures. At least, mine is.’
Naomi shrugged, unconvinced.
‘And what about love?’ Mary continued. ‘How do you manage without that, I wonder? I have been in love with something or somebody all my life. It is an absolute necessity for me.’
‘Oh, love!’ cried Naomi scornfully. ‘Love is a usurer who first persuades you that his loan is a gift, and then demands a high rate of interest for it!’
‘There you go again, Naomi! What a cynic you are, to be sure! You must have been crossed in love. Were you?’ Without waiting for a reply, she ran on, ‘I was, frequently. Lord, what a goose I made of myself! It is much better to be married and sensible, I assure you.’
Naomi smiled to herself and rocked the handsome boy in her lap while Mary retailed gossip from one end of Wyndendale to the other. Santo’s eyelids drooped with heat and sleep. Naomi touched one side of his flushed face to make sure they were not sitting too near the fire, and a great contentment crept over her. She could have stayed like that forever, but Mary would not let her.
‘What do you mean by calling The Clarion a promising pupil?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Ambrose is a very good journalist. Even those who don’t like him must admire him.’
‘What do I mean?’ Looking drowsily into the flames. ‘I mean — he is a clever fellow, your cousin Ambrose, but he is capable of so much more than this comedy he plays. He is like Mr Punch, who will hit anybody with his stick. Like a little boy who knocks at a door and runs away. Oh, he is brave and amusing, one cannot help liking him — and yet one cannot take him seriously, either.’
‘But why not?’ Mary protested. ‘He is serious in his beliefs, and he has suffered for them too.’
Loyalty was one of her strong suits, but a deeper grievance was besetting her.
She went on, almost querulously, ‘I adore Uncle William, and he is always very kind and generous to me, but it was not at all nice of him to set up a paper in direct opposition to The Clarion. And why do you call The Herald a shrewd teacher, as though Mr Pickering knew more than Ambrose?’
Her tone made Naomi look up, but she answered Mary calmly.
‘The Herald is politically better balanced, and in particular fields — such as foreign and financial news — it is better informed.’
Mary’s colour was high. She showed every sign of the temper which people of her complexion were supposed to possess.
‘It is easy for you to talk!’ she cried impetuously. ‘You and Uncle William are rich and can do as you please. Ambrose is poor and must manage as best as he can. And I think he does very well, and if I could help him I would do so. The only thing he lacks is opportunity.’
‘Gently, gently, my friend,’ said Naomi. ‘Surely we are not going to quarrel over a difference of opinion?’
She descried the meaning beneath Mary’s words and anger.
‘Are you worried about money again?’ she asked, wondering what had happened to the proceeds from the sale of Thornton House.
‘Oh, no matter!’ Mary said miserably, deflated. ‘Look how late it is already! There is never enough time for anything these days. We must go. And poor little Santo is fast asleep.’
‘You cannot drive him back by yourself through the dark and wet,’ Naomi cried. ‘Why not stay here with me tonight?’
‘No, love,’ said Mary, composing herself. ‘I must go home. Polly was very worried when we went out. She won’t sleep until we get back. And Philly or Hannah might wake up and find me gone. So let me have the poor little fellow…’
She held out her arms. Naomi gave up the child reluctantly, rang the bell, and ordered the maid to bring their coats.
‘Will you not tell me what troubles you?’ she asked, for she wanted so much to help.
‘No, I think not,’ said Mary stoically. ‘Aunt Cha always said, “Don’t talk about troubles. Deal with them.” She disliked grumblers.’
‘I wish I had known her,’ said Naomi simply.
She coaxed Santo’s arms into his sleeves.
‘I thank you for your company,’ she said, smiling at her friend. ‘You leave two empty spaces behind you.’
Mary spoke more briskly than she felt.
‘You really should get married, you know, Naomi. It would leave you no space at all!’ She added, with a touch of humour, ‘We must find you a husband like Hal. That would suit you very well indeed. You would have lots of babies, and hardly ever see him!’
She could keep up her spirits no longer. Two single tears formed, trembled and slid down her cheeks. The parlour-maid, without a hint from her mistress, tactfully disappeared.
Mary said in gasps, ‘Oh, cuddle Santo for me! If he sees me crying it makes him cry too! I shall be myself again in a minute.’
She kept wiping away the tears very fir
mly and just as firmly they welled up, until at last she sobbed the story out.
‘I’m expecting another baby in November — and let’s hope it won’t be twins this time, though Santo and Hannah are sweet. And Hal is in trouble with his tunnel. It’s taking longer than he estimated and they are working at night by torchlight to cut the costs, which has its dangers and difficulties. So he has no time to listen to me. And Polly leans on me, instead of the other way around. And, though I love the Old Hall dearly, there is always something that needs doing to it, and paying for. And it is no use consulting Hal, for he knows nothing about houses and is always busy. And Uncle William helps out when he can, but Hal would go mad if he knew — all because Uncle William didn’t marry his mother nearly forty years ago. But at least I have you,’ crying hard, ‘and what I would do without you, I don’t know.’
Santo roared in sympathy and mother and child sobbed together, while Naomi endeavoured to comfort them both. After a while Mary drew a deep breath, blew her nose and said resolutely, ‘There. That’s better. I’ll go home now. Do be quiet, Santo, or I might be tempted to leave you behind and have one less to cope with!’
Naomi said firmly and compassionately, ‘No, I shall not let you go. It would be rash and foolish to risk yourself and the child twice in one night!’ It was her only hint of reproach for Mary’s impulsive behaviour. ‘Let us send a message to the Royal George, and one of the ostlers will take it to Brigge. We shall say that you were feeling faint, and I am keeping you here. That they are not to worry, for you are quite safe with me, and will be home in the morning.’
She was at her best and most beautiful, caring for them, offering rest and shelter. Now she took them both back into the parlour and ordered a hot cordial for Mary.
‘Ah, how well you shall sleep tonight, and in the morning — not one moment earlier than nine o’clock! — you shall sit up in bed and drink hot chocolate, with no one to worry you. I will take care of Santo. Then we shall breakfast together, and talk things over and make many plans, and all your troubles will fly away. How does that sound to you, my Mary?’
