by R. N. Morris
His horn-rimmed reading glasses, retrieved from the table in the drawing room, pinched his nostrils. With the tip of his forefinger, he pushed them back on to the bridge of his nose, screwing his face into an unfocused squint. The fact was he was not used to wearing spectacles and so always struggled to find the best position for them. Emma would say that it was time for a new prescription. She seemed to take delight in his physical degradation. Quite naturally, Fonthill abhorred visiting the optometrist as much as he did any member of the medical profession. Whatever they pronounced, it was always some variation on the inevitable refrain. ‘You are getting older!’ The prognosis was always mortality.
The glasses gradually slipped back down his nose under their own weight. By carefully adjusting the angle of his head, and its distance from the score, he was able to bring the sheets of music into focus.
Pencil in hand, he scanned the first few bars. He could hear the notes of the opening violin duet play in his head. It had an immediate calming effect on his emotional state, which had been disturbed by the sight of the stranger outside the house.
Working on a score was a peculiar mixture of the visual and the aural. He heard the music in his imagination, where it had a ghostly quality, which he strained to latch on to. But he was reliant on the printed notation to conjure up the elusive effect.
Given the deficiencies of his eyesight, and the pressures he would be under on the night – one of his violinists was a world-renowned virtuoso, and the soprano solo would be taken by an operatic prima donna – Fonthill had resolved to memorize all the pieces so that he would not be reliant on the score when conducting.
It was not just a question of memorizing the notes. He had to pay attention to the sections in the music that required particular care to achieve their effects. Take the refrain of ‘Friends’, first encountered at F. It was one of the most effective moments of the song, where the sopranos hang on an ethereal suspended chord. The vocal lines of the music are marked p at that point, while the violins and piano play pp, following the diminuendo indicated in the preceding bar. It is a moment of great delicacy and, paradoxically, power too. But so much can go wrong. Especially with a choir of amateurs. He must take control of the timing. There is no rallentando indicated in the score, but in his judgement it could safely be assumed, picking up the tempo again at G. There were certain members of the choir who found it unaccountably difficult to cope with variations of tempo. They would be looking for him at that point to guide them. All well and good. That was what he was there for. Except that some of them had a tendency to panic. And when they concentrated too hard on timing issues, their pitch went all over the shop.
In fairness, such shortcomings could most often be laid at the door of the basses. And thankfully this song did not require basses, or any male parts at all.
It had been his original idea to assign the two soprano parts to soloists, with the soprano sections of the choir coming in for the chorus. Dame Elsie would of course take the first part. Anna was to have sung the second. It would have been a wonderful opportunity for her – his gift to her. But that was not to be. And so, he had divided the parts so that Dame Elsie sang sop one and all the choir sopranos sang the second part together, splitting into sop ones and sop twos for the refrain.
It was really very simple. And yet it seemed to provoke no end of confusion among the choir members. There was much raising of eyebrows, shaking of heads, furrowing of brows – all the many little ways those who are commanded have at their disposal to question the decisions of those who command.
They would all come round in the end, of course. They always did. So why on earth they insisted on going through this period of resistance baffled him.
There had been a time when he could count on Emma’s support, but he had lost that a long time ago. Fortunately, there had been a series of loyal devotees to take her place, the latest of which had been Anna.
Perhaps that was why he was interested in recruiting Miss Greene to the choir. Her voice was good, surprisingly so. She had potential. Of course, she was not in Anna’s league, and probably never would be. But she was mouldable, he felt. She lacked confidence, which meant that he could build her up and then reap the benefits of her dependence. The challenge for now was to find a way to progress matters, at the same time as seeming to back off. The important thing was not to provoke Emma further.
He needed to get back in his wife’s good books somehow. Naturally, it made life easier if they were on good terms. But it was more than that. Fonthill experienced a momentary tightening in his chest. A small surge of panic took away the air from his lungs as he thought back to the figure he had caught sight of through the drawing-room window. He might need Emma’s assistance sooner rather than later.
There was a knock at the door. Fonthill almost jumped out of his skin. But there was nothing to be afraid of. He recognized it as the gentle, professionally discreet rap of Callaghan, his butler.
‘Come in.’
Callaghan carried before him the silver tray reserved for the post. It bore a single item. A small square package. ‘This came for you, sir.’
‘Thank you, Callaghan. Just put it there, will you.’ Fonthill indicated a space at the edge of his desk. The butler negotiated his way around the piano to do as he was bid. Fonthill eyed the parcel distractedly. ‘Is that the only post today?’
‘The post hasn’t been yet, sir. This must have been delivered by hand.’
Fonthill sat up. The parcel had his full attention now. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. There was no doubt – the appearance of the mysterious man watching the house had put him on edge. It gave everything a sinister cast. For some insane reason, he imagined the package containing a still-beating heart.
‘If that will be all, sir?’
Fonthill looked up at the bland, imperturbable face of his butler. Callaghan’s expression concealed his emotions as effectively as the brown paper and string concealed the contents of the parcel. It was the first time Fonthill had ever really looked at Callaghan – as a man, as a human being in his own right, rather than as a semi-invisible lackey who had no thoughts or desires of his own and existed only to fulfil the wishes of others. Fonthill felt a stab of grief. For reasons he could not quite admit to himself, he suddenly felt lonelier than he ever had in his life.
His gaze latched on to Callaghan’s features as if he were latching on to the only familiar and safe place in a hostile world. The carefully trimmed moustache, the equally unruly eyebrows (a strangely touching blindspot given the man’s otherwise impeccable grooming); the filigree pattern of broken veins on his cheeks that looked as if they had been painted in by a skilled artist with a superfine brush; the salt and pepper hair, the thickness of which must have been a source of pride to Callaghan; and more than anything those eyes, which Fonthill noticed for the first time were a startling green.
Part of his grief was the awareness that he had taken Callaghan too much for granted. He had treated him like a dog, in the best sense of that expression: presuming his unconditional loyalty and devotion even. Suddenly he felt he owed Callaghan – what? An explanation? An apology? A word of gratitude or kindness? Something.
‘How long have you been with us, Callaghan?’
‘It will be eleven years next March, sir.’
‘Eleven years! Good heavens. You must like it here then?’
Callaghan gave a small bow but said nothing. It was not exactly the ringing endorsement Fonthill had been fishing for.
‘I … certainly … hope … that is the case. That you are … satisfied … more than satisfied … happy … ’ Good grief! What a word to say to one’s butler! He must be out of his mind! ‘… in your position here.’
A tremor of confusion animated those impressively bristling eyebrows. They had the appearance of two caterpillars trying to make a break for it.
‘It is satisfactory, yes, sir.’
Although he sensed his butler’s discomfiture, Fonthill found that his need
to keep him there with him was greater than the desire to spare him any further embarrassment.
‘Good. I wanted you to know that we have valued your service over the years. Your discretion, in particular, is something that I personally have appreciated. And perhaps I have not expressed my appreciation as much as I might.’
A second bow, deeper than the first. The man’s whole body was tensed to turn on the balls of his feet and bolt from the room. But Fonthill would not release him yet.
‘I wonder, did you see who delivered this?’
‘No, sir. I am afraid I did not. Marie took delivery of it.’
‘Marie? The one with the …?’
‘Yes, sir. I believe she found it on the doorstep after someone had rung the bell. She did not see who left it there.’
Fonthill took this in. ‘Have you seen any strangers coming to the house recently? Perhaps to the tradesmen’s entrance?’
‘Strangers, sir?’
‘I saw a man earlier.’
‘A man?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t see him distinctly but … I had the impression he was watching the house.’
Those untameable brows came together in consternation. ‘Would you like me to call the police, sir?’
‘No. That won’t be necessary.’
‘Very well, sir. If there is nothing else …’
‘There is nothing else. You may go.’
But the haste with which the man fled the room was wounding.
Fonthill turned his attention to the parcel. He could not say why it unsettled him so much. It seemed to squat on his desk, defying him, inexplicably malevolent. Daring him to open it. Why should he not?
In all likelihood, it was nothing to do with the mysterious figure he had seen.
It was probably an early Christmas present from someone. But from whom? Anna, perhaps. That would explain why she had run off without being seen.
He knew that it had not ended well with Anna. To say she had taken it badly was an understatement. She had said things which no doubt now she regretted. He had not imagined so much anger and bitterness could be contained in such a petite and delicately boned creature. But then her voice was a revelation, too. And where had she learnt to swear like that?
Perhaps this was a peace offering. Her way of saying all is forgiven. Of apologizing even.
At last he found the courage to pick it up. It was heavier than he expected. If it was a present from Anna, its satisfying heft suggested something flatteringly substantial. A bronze or marble bust, perhaps. Might she even have commissioned a bust of him? No, no. That would be expecting too much. A statuette of Orpheus perhaps? Had she not said that he was her Orpheus? Of course, the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice did not end entirely happily, at least as far as Eurydice was concerned. But at the time he had taken it for the compliment it was no doubt intended to be.
At the very least it might be a paperweight. He imagined a highly polished lump of some semi-precious stone – he would not want her to spend too much of her resources on the gift. Something in obsidian or jet. That seemed somehow the kind of thing Anna might give him at this particular moment in time.
He felt a pang of guilt. He had not got anything for her. But there was still time to rectify that, which was perhaps why she had delivered the present early, to make sure of a reciprocal gift. Ah, but that wouldn’t be easy to accomplish, given his present financial embarrassment.
He looked at the handwriting on the outside of the parcel. But did not recognize it as Anna’s. She had written to him, letters which were now safely burnt. The little fool. How could she be so stupid as to consign their affair to writing? But he had read them quickly and had not given much conscious attention to her hand. He remembered it was vaguely what you would expect it to be, somehow feminine and pretty, even if some of the sentiments she had given expression to were not. On balance, he rather thought this was not her writing. But he could not be sure.
Of course, there was only one way to find out what the parcel contained and who it was from.
He took his paperknife to the tautened string and cut it with a resonant pop.
He peeled away the brown paper, revealing a varnished wooden box, made from some dark wood, mahogany most likely. The top was inlaid with a marquetry design representing a lyre. And so, yes, there was an allusion to Orpheus in the gift. Although there was no card, the reference was a strong indication that it was from Anna.
There was a small keyhole in the front. He lifted the box out of its wrapping to see if there was a key lying beneath it. There was not. He soon discovered that the lid was not locked, however. And when he raised it, he discovered the key there. The interior of the box was far shallower than the exterior suggested, just as its weight was greater than he would have expected from a simple wooden box of that dimension. There was obviously a concealed mechanism.
He put the key in the keyhole, closed the lid and began to wind. Each crank of the clockwork lightened his mood.
When the spring was fully wound he put the music box back on the desk and opened the lid again. The key in the front of the box began to rotate back on itself. A mechanical tinkling began.
Although his expectations had not been high, the sound the machine emitted grated on his senses unbearably. Ground out in staccato metallic plinks, a single ten-note sequence was repeated over and over again, but the notes were so devoid of resonance they were virtually toneless.
It could not be called a tune. It had no melodic coherence, did not even seem to be in a recognizable key. It went nowhere. Made no musical sense. It seemed to have been composed by a lunatic, with the sole purpose of putting any listener’s nerves on edge. It was an assault on Fonthill’s ears, an insult to his sensibility.
No, he couldn’t accept that this infernal object was from Anna. And it was not just his vanity that refused to believe it. It just didn’t make sense. Why would she go to the trouble, let alone the expense, of sending him this calculated expression of her hatred?
But if it wasn’t from her, who was it from?
Fonthill closed the lid. The key in the front stopped turning. The jarring noise was silenced.
He turned the box over. Scratched into the unvarnished underside were four German words:
EHRE VERLOREN, ALLES VERLOREN
Fonthill felt a chill go through him, like the first shiver of a long sickness. The music box fell from his trembling hands, clattering on to its side on his desk. The lid popped open. And the soulless grinding out of noise struck up again, each thin note a pin pricked into his deflating hope.
NINE
‘I understand.’ Charles Cavendish could not bear to look at his wife as he said the words, which perhaps undermined the sincerity of his claim. Or perhaps his embarrassment came from the fact that he understood too well, better than she could have imagined. Certainly, he was embarrassed.
He found it easier to focus his attention on the blue willow pattern teapot that sat between them on the kitchen table. The tea set had been a wedding present from Ursula’s parents. A reminder of happier times? He did not think so. He was not sure there had ever been happier times. And if he was honest, he had never liked the china. It was more her parents’ taste than theirs. At times, it gave him great satisfaction to imagine smashing it. All seventeen pieces of it.
‘How can you?’
The undisguised bitterness in her voice did at last draw his gaze, if only for a fleeting instant. He was both relieved and disappointed to see that she could not look at him either. She was looking out of the window, almost with longing at the filthy weather as it swirled through the sky. As if she would rather be out there in that than in here with him.
Her face was flushed and glistening from the heat of her emotions. He could not in all honesty say that Ursula was a beautiful woman, but there was something fierce and defiant about her looks, something profoundly unapologetic, that fascinated. That fierceness was concentrated in her eyes, which were dark and glowering beneath heavy brows that o
ften met in a frown, though never of confusion – of anything but. Of dissatisfaction, impatience, frustration, anger, or as now, contempt.
It would not be true to say that Ursula did not care what people thought of her. It was rather that she believed she had a right to be thought highly of.
It was a point of view that made her easy to admire but difficult to love.
It struck Cavendish as almost comically English that they were having this conversation while waiting for a pot of tea to brew. For all the tense emotion of the moment, for all Ursula’s bitterness and misery, there was the milk jug, there was the sugar bowl with its tiny silver-plated tongs for lifting out the sugar cubes, there were the waiting cups and saucers. They must drink tea. Whatever else happened, they must drink tea.
They were three storeys up in a mansion block in Hampstead. This was their home. But Cavendish felt curiously cast adrift, as if the violence of the wind outside was about to rip the room they were in from the fabric of the rest of the building and hurl them into the void.
He knew that his marriage to Ursula was not perfect. But it was all he had.
The fault was undoubtedly his. He fell short in some way. She found him lacking and she was right to. He was dull. Unimaginative. Weak. Cowardly.
If he had been married to Charles Cavendish he would have been unhappy.
And so, he braced himself for the onslaught of her complaints, while all the time fantasising about smashing that damn tea service.
‘How can you understand? You have no idea!’
‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest that I …’
‘She’s here! In the building! Our building. Our home. With that … bastard!’
‘Ursula, really! Is it really necessary …?’
‘It is a bastard child! I am merely using the word in its correct, literal sense. She is unmarried. An unmarried mother. The child therefore is a bastard.’
‘Yes, but I really think … she has to live somewhere. They have to live somewhere.’
