She knew instinctively that even this first approach was curiously important and suddenly she found herself thinking of Henry and not at all of Lewis. She went towards the table with an air of slightly timid purpose, smiled a little tentatively at the ring of faces, then looked full at Max Arrowsmith who was watching her from the head of the table and said with a quiet air of composure which surprised herself, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Arrowsmith. Thank you for arranging to see me.’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ was the reply as Arrowsmith got to his feet, and she knew, though she could not have said why, that he was pleased with her. ‘I’m not going to make any introductions at this point. Just think of us as interested members of your audience. We would like to hear you sing before we discuss anything else. Miss Mead—’ he indicated the one woman present—‘will take you to the audition room. There’s no hurry. Take your time and relax. If you’re tired after your journey—’
‘Oh, but I couldn’t be, you know,’ said Amanda. ‘I was brought here by car. I’m used to cycling most places.’
One or two of the men laughed at that and Miss Mead rose from the table and said, ‘Come with me.’ Then she led Amanda from the room and along the corridor to a small hall with a platform at one end.
‘Let them wait ten minutes,’ she said in an unexpectedly deep and husky voice. ‘It does them good and whets their appetite. I’m playing for you. My name’s Josephine, by the way. Are you a good sight-reader?’
‘Pretty good.’ Amanda felt curiously unafraid, as though she had plunged into an unknown stream from which there was now no turning back. She must do her best to swim, but if she sank—she sank. ‘Do I have to start right off by sight-reading?’ she enquired.
‘No. I suggest you begin with something in which you’re totally at home and which you know you sing well. Let them have the full impact of any vocal attainments you may have. What are you used to singing?’
‘Oratorio mostly,’ Amanda admitted. At which Josephine Mead laughed, not unkindly, and said,
‘Well, that’s a novelty in this place anyway. I doubt if any of them have even heard the Hallelujah Chorus. Except Arrowsmith, of course. He knows more than he lets on. Did you bring any music?’
Amanda proffered the small assortment she had brought and Miss Mead unhesitatingly picked out ‘Hear ye, Israel’ and asked, ‘Can you really sing this?—well, I mean.’
‘Sir Oscar Warrender seemed to think so,’ replied Amanda coolly, and the other woman gave her a speculative glance and remarked,
‘Well, either this audition is going to be a sensation or you’re going to fall flat on your face. Shall I call them in to hear you now?’
‘Yes.’ Amanda slipped off her coat, piled her things almost carelessly on a vacant chair and went to stand in the curve of the grand piano.
Presently the others came sauntering in, still talking, and she noticed that Jerome looked distinctly nervous. Then when they were seated she said with astonishing composure, ‘I don’t know quite what you wanted me to sing, gentlemen, but I’m going to sing “Hear ye, Israel” from Mendelssohn’s Elijah because I know it well and it shows off any voice I have.’
‘Never heard of it,’ observed the man sitting next to Arrowsmith in a disparaging tone.
‘No, you wouldn’t have,’ replied Arrowsmith coolly. ‘It’s not your line of country. Go ahead, Amanda.’
So Josephine Mead played the introductory bars and even as Amanda began to sing she found her thoughts switch abruptly from her brother and his desperate need to Lewis Elsworth and the long, patient, inspired work he had lavished on her training. It was inevitable, really. Everything about this particular air was associated with him. The almost faultless technique upon which she was even now relying was of his making. She was partly his creation—and she knew that in some obscure way she was betraying him.
Nothing in her voice showed what was in her mind and heart: her musical discipline was too good for that. But even while her voice almost caressed the rising phrases of hope and confidence a fearful sense of self-disgust crept over her. At the end she just stood there, leaning now against the piano, and stared unhappily at the ground until she heard someone say,
‘It’s a fine tune, but too much repetition. We couldn’t use that.’
‘We were not thinking of using it,’ Jerome cut in contemptuously. ‘We’re just assessing Amanda’s voice.’
‘Which is extraordinarily good,’ put in the man beside Max Arrowsmith. ‘But not sexy, of course. Pity. It’s not a bit sexy. Otherwise it’s real pretty.’
‘She doesn’t have to be sexy, if you remember,’ Arrowsmith said smoothly. ‘She’s the one person in the piece who has to be essentially something else.’
A certain amount of discussion broke out at that, and then Jerome interrupted impatiently, ‘Let’s hear her do some of the first act music.’ He came up to the platform and whispered to her, ‘Don’t look so downhearted, darling. They’re impressed, I can see that. It’s just they’re a bit bewildered by your choice. But Arrowsmith thinks you’re a knock-out. I know the signs when he’s really excited—which is almost never. Come and try some of this. You sight-read quite well, don’t you?’
She nodded wordlessly and came to stand beside him at the piano, where he took the seat which Josephine Mead had now vacated. As Jerome handed her some sheets of manuscript music Amanda saw that his hand was trembling slightly and she found it in her heart to be sorry for him. After all, this was terribly important to him too, she supposed. And to Henry. She must not forget Henry—or Nan, who had cried so bitterly as she abandoned any hope of helping her husband.
‘Glance through it. Take your time.’ Jerome’s voice was slightly hoarse. ‘No, you can keep those sheets with you——’ as she went to hand them back.
‘I don’t need the music. I know it. After all, I wrote it.’ He laughed slightly and again she knew that he was nervous.
As she studied the sheets of music Amanda thought she detected some considerable charm and real melody in the phrases. The words were not particularly engaging, but she had little time to take in their exact meaning. Then after a few minutes she said, ‘I can manage, I think. Does she really mean what she’s singing, Jerry? Is it gay and positive—or is she wistful and uncertain?’
‘A little of both. Clever of you to realise the double meaning.’ He smiled brilliantly at her. ‘Now try it out.’
So she straightened up, faced her hard-boiled audience and braced herself to do full justice to Jerome’s composition. She owed him that at least.
There was, as she had thought, considerable melodic charm to the music and, indeed, as she sang it she was reminded irresistibly of the delightful air she had sung that time at school when she had first met him. There was no question of his outstanding talent for inventing tunes which people would delight to sing, nor of his unusual capacity for investing them with a special elegance which was all their own. She realised that some of the words and phrases she was singing had an odd double meaning. They were—she supposed questionable was the word. But with her mind concentrated on her singing she had no time for close analysis.
At the end there was a good deal of comment—most of it complimentary—and then Jerome launched into a duet in which he himself sang with her in a light, undistinguished but pleasing baritone. After which Max Arrowsmith broke up proceedings, gave Amanda an approving nod and said to Miss Mead,
‘See that Miss Lovett has whatever she likes in the way of refreshment.’ And the men went back to their conference room and Amanda was conducted to yet another room—a small and pleasant place, something between an office and a sitting room, where tea and sandwiches and attractive little cakes were brought in on a tray.
‘You did well,’ Josephine Mead informed her as she poured out the tea. ‘You realised that, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know. Not very much was said.’
‘Very little is said on these occasions in front of the person most concerned,’ was the kn
owledgeable reply. ‘But I’ve been present at so many of them that I can assess the reaction pretty accurately. You walked well, stood well, sang well and gave a very engaging impression. My guess is that all of that adds up to what they’re looking for. Does the thought excite you?’
‘No,’ said Amanda. ‘I need the job, but I don’t want it. I suppose that sounds rather ridiculous to you?’
‘Not specially.—Have a sandwich. They’re good. Everything in this place is good—materially speaking.’
Amanda glanced up quickly and asked with sudden candour, ‘Why do you work here?’
‘For the same reason that you will accept what they offer. I need the job, but I don’t want it. What I wanted was to be a concert pianist——’
‘You play awfully well,’ Amanda interrupted sincerely.
‘But not well enough. I’m good, like hundreds of others, but not good enough. I make an excellent living here, doing things I rather despise.’ She yawned slightly. ‘None of it has anything to do with real music. But in the end you have to come to terms with things as they are and not as you would wish them to be, don’t you?’
Amanda looked at her more closely, passed the tip of her tongue over dry lips and asked, ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘I don’t know—except that you asked me. But if you repeat any of it to that lot in there I’ll deny it and say you’re a liar. I need my good job.’
‘I shouldn’t dream of repeating a word,’ Amanda replied. ‘But, Josephine—you said I could call you Josephine, didn’t you?—do you know much about this work they’re all discussing? Have you seen the whole score? And if so, what’s it really like?’
‘I know it quite well. I’ve had to accompany quite a number of applicants for the various roles. None of them could sing half as well as you. But none of them showed your reluctance to snatch at any chance that offered. The music is very good on its own terms. Not the best that Jerome can do. But then that’s Jerome, isn’t it, when the rewards are high?’
‘I don’t know.’ Amanda’s attention was riveted, for she detected a note of personal bitterness in that last remark which interested her. ‘I’m not worried about the music. That has a standard of its own, even if Jerome could really do better things. But I’ve a feeling of uneasiness about other aspects. Some of the words seemed——’ she broke off and the other woman said drily,
‘Oh, they are! The situations are amusing if you like that sort of thing, but questionable to the point of making half the audience gasp and the other half roar with laughter. You might persuade them to alter the wording of your own part a little. After all, you’re playing the innocent among the rest; the dove among the jays, if you like. But I can’t see them listening very sympathetically to the kind of protest you would make. One thing, however—’ she narrowed her eyes suddenly—‘don’t let them jazz up the air you sang—“Hear ye, Israel”. I could see the idea in Terence Edgar’s eye while you were singing it, and he’s devilishly clever at that sort of thing.’
‘Over my dead body!’ exclaimed Amanda furiously.
‘Well, you’ll need to be tough. You aren’t going to like this, Amanda. Do you need the job very badly?’
‘Desperately.’
‘I see. Play your cards close to your chest, as the saying is. They’ll be calling you in soon to make an offer—at least, that’s my guess. It will be a good offer, but hedge if you can. Say you must think it over, consult your grandmother, or whatever you like, and don’t be stampeded into any kind of commitment. Not even a general one without signatures attached. They’d all back each other up later, even Jerome. It’s some time since they started looking for someone like you, and a good deal of money depends on their making an early beginning, with the right person.’
Sudden panic gripped Amanda at that point and, rising to her feet, she exclaimed, ‘I don’t even want to discuss it, after all. I’m going to slip off now, before they can come badgering me.’
‘No, you can’t do that.’ The other woman moved her chair carelessly so that she more or less blocked the way to the door. ‘Arrowsmith at least would guess I’d been talking out of turn, and I can’t afford that. Don’t panic. Just be slow in answering and dither a little. They expect you to be a bit of a goop anyway. I think one of them is coming to call you now. Remember no one can actually force you—not even here. Just say as little as you possibly can. Remember that.’
Amanda remembered it. She remembered it all through the lengthy discussion which followed, during which she was made an offer so handsome that she gasped, even though Josephine had told her it would be good. With an immense effort she wrenched her mind away from the thought of what all that money could do for Henry, for Nan, for the hotel—even for herself. It occurred to her for a confusing moment that perhaps she was being a perfect fool even to consider rejecting what might well be the greatest chance of her life. Was it not possible that Josephine—unknown to her an hour ago—was just an ill-wishing, jealous woman who wanted to spoil her chances? Such people did exist. And there had been peculiar bitterness in the way she spoke of Jerome.
Jerome who said more than once, ‘But, darling, why do you have to go home and think it over? It’s the sort of offer most girls would give——’
‘I’m not most girls,’ she replied obstinately. ‘I’m myself. And I’m confused and stunned by all that’s happening. I have to think it over.’
‘You wouldn’t be silly enough to chew it over with Lewis Elsworth, would you?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I just refuse to make up my mind here and now. Mr Arrowsmith—’ with sudden inspiration she turned to him—‘will you please stop them all badgering me? I thought I came here to sing to you.’
‘No one wants to badger you, my dear.’ He smiled almost reassuringly. ‘We’re thinking of your own good—and ours too, I admit. How long do you want to think it over?’
‘Twenty-four hours,’ she said flatly. ‘And I want to go now, please.’ She stood up. ‘No, Jerry—’ as he made a move to accompany her—‘I don’t want you or anyone else with me. I’m going home by train—and alone. Good afternoon, everyone. And thank you for hearing me and making this offer.’
She turned on her heel then and walked out of the room. As she went she heard one of the men say, ‘She’s a natural for the part. We just have to have her.’
‘And who is she going to consult now, for God’s sake?’ exclaimed another voice which she thought was Jerry’s.
Presumably the others only shrugged, for it was Josephine who answered, with a touch of amused malice, ‘Oscar Warrender, perhaps.’
The last thing she heard was a burst of laughter as she stepped into the lift and pressed the button for it to descend.
Oscar Warrender. The name fell on her ear with a peculiar sort of significance and, as the lift deposited her silently and discreetly at the ground floor and she went into the busy sunlit street, she asked herself if Josephine had been jeering—or hinting something when she uttered that name so clearly.
‘If I knew where he lived,’ Amanda muttered, ‘I almost think——’
And there, straight before her—almost as though something other than her own will were directing her—there loomed a red telephone booth. It was unoccupied and, dangling by a chain from the shelf, was a shabby directory.
Her hands were not quite steady as she riffled through the pages devoted to the W’s, and she felt both scared and triumphant as the name ‘Warrender, Sir Oscar’ started out at her. Killigrew Mansions, St James’s. She stared through the windows of the telephone booth, trying to reorientate herself, and presently it dawned on her that she was scarcely more than ten minutes’ walk away. If she went now——
She stepped out into the street again, her breath coming in short, uneasy little gasps, and though she tried to tell herself that she might do no more than go and look at the place, a sort of desperate resolution was growing within her. It did not occur to her that other anxious
singers must have approached that same address with beating hearts at various times. She was only aware of the beating of her own heart and the strange numbness in her brain, which made it impossible for her to think of a plausible sentence with which to account for her presence to whatever servant should open the door.
No such sentence was required, however, when it came to the point. The person who opened the door was Warrender himself and he said. ‘Oh——?’ as though he had been expecting someone else. And then, not specially welcomingly, ‘Elsworth’s protégée, isn’t it? Did you want to see me or my wife?’
‘You,’ replied Amanda so huskily that she felt he must be mentally according her poor marks for her diction.
‘Well, come in.’ He held the door open for her and added, ‘The studio is straight ahead. I have only ten or fifteen minutes, I’m afraid.’
‘Thank you.’ She managed to make that a little clearer. ‘It’s good of you to allow me even a short time without an appointment.’
She had the impression that he thought so too, though he did not put it into words. He indicated a chair, sat down opposite her and asked with disconcerting abruptness, ‘Well, what is it?’
That was the moment when she knew she should never have come. How did one explain the terrible complications of her dilemma in ten or fifteen minutes? She had not even arranged her thoughts, let alone the words in which to clothe them.
There was a frightful pause. Then she blurted out, ‘I want—I need—your advice.’
He looked bored and enquired not very kindly, ‘Artistically, morally or financially?’
‘I suppose—all three,’ she said, astonished to realise that this was more or less the case; and she felt she could hardly blame him when he replied irritably, ‘But why come to me, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Because you probably know the answer better than anyone else.’ And suddenly her mind cleared miraculously. ‘I’ve been made an offer—an extremely good offer—to play the lead in one of Max Arrowsmith’s shows. I need the money desperately because my brother is ill and requires expensive medical help which might cure him.’
Nightingales (Warrender Saga Book 11) Page 9
