by R. N. Morris
Aidan stood for a moment peering over the top of his spectacle lenses, waiting for the trombonist’s joke to play itself out. The musician in question, realizing that he was the object of his conductor’s attention, first raised his eyebrows in mock contrition, and then gave a sarcastic grin.
‘Thank you. Yes, you, sir. This kind of behaviour may be acceptable in the tap room of the Flask, but I tell you I will not tolerate it in my orchestra. I expect my musicians to behave with discipline and decorum at all times, even when they are not required to participate in a particular piece. It makes it very difficult for those who are trying to rehearse if they must do so against this background of chatter and mockery. No doubt you think you are better than a choir of amateurs. But let me tell you, I have been listening to you. Yes, you. I have heard a number of decidedly off notes coming from your direction. I have ears, you know. Slurred speech is deplorable enough, but slurred playing is beyond the pale. I expect, no, I demand that my musicians be sober and proficient when they present themselves to perform in a concert for which they are receiving professional remuneration.’
There was a booming heckle from the basses. ‘So he’s getting paid, is he?’
Aidan was on the verge of losing control completely. It did not help when Émile Boland, who had consented to play the first violin part, chipped in. ‘Perhaps it is you who are drunk.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Boland waved his bow around erratically. ‘You cannot keep time. That is what you are supposed to do, I think? You are the conductor, no? But it is not consistent. You are too slow, you are too fast. You are too fast, you are too slow.’ Boland shook his head disparagingly. ‘And I think it is not wise for a conductor to insult the members of the orchestra whom he wishes to play for him. No?’
Bows were tapped against music stands, laps slapped, and even feet stamped in approval of this opinion.
Aidan’s mouth gaped hopelessly. He looked lost, stricken, betrayed. He had always placed great store in the approval of those he considered his ‘fellow musicians’. Despite a slightly condescending view of the status of professional players, there was no doubt that he valued their opinion and considered them his peers in music, if not in other matters. But now it was as if the veil had been drawn back. He glimpsed for the first time the contempt in which these men and women had always held him.
No, not even now did Emma allow herself to feel sorry for him. Not even when he flashed her a quick imploring glance. It was an instinctive moment. His habit to look to her for support and validation when things got especially sticky. Behind it was his assumption that, no matter what he did, no matter how badly he treated her, she would always acknowledge his precedence in music. He could count on her to affirm his talent. And if not her, then who? In that look was revealed the microscopic nucleus of self-doubt that he was normally so adept at concealing, from himself as much as from anyone.
This time she gave him nothing back. She kept her face stony and unresponsive, staring straight at him, but not meeting his gaze any more than a statue might. And then she turned from him, feeling a tiny spasm kink up the corner of her mouth.
SIXTEEN
By the time it came to rehearsing the dancers, Sir Aidan found that his baton was shaking so violently that he was obliged to lay it down for a moment to flex his fingers.
When he picked it up again to tap the top of his rostrum it was as much to call himself to order as the musicians.
As it happened, the orchestra was sufficiently familiar with the music to be able to play it without direction from him. They were instead taking their cues from the leader, who was directing things with exaggerated head movements and eyebrow animations. Normally, he would have taken this as a slight, which would have piqued him into a show of dominance. But now he just wanted to get through the rehearsal without any further mishaps. He was aware that he might have made a few small faux pas himself. But the choir was proving particularly intractable today. And the almost mutinous attitude of the musicians had not helped.
It had been agreed that they would perform three excerpts from The Nutcracker Suite: ‘March’, ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ and ‘Russian Dance’. The first would be danced as a Pas de Deux; the second was of course a solo by la Volkova; and the third was choreographed to bring Kuznetsov’s talents to the fore.
The trombonist with whom he had been obliged to have words pointedly played the opening notes of the march with meticulous precision and conspicuous disregard of his conductor. His demeanour was gloatingly self-important. But Sir Aidan was wise enough, and magnanimous enough, to let it go. He had achieved the desired result. The fellow was at least concentrating now.
The dancers, of course, needed no help from him, which was just as well as he had his back to them. This meant that he could not see their steps, and so missed out on their interpretations. But he could see the expressions of delight in the faces of the choir members.
Once or twice he was tempted to cast a quick glance back over his shoulder. The evening might not be an entire disaster after all. The couple were not yet in full costume but had changed into rehearsal leotards and tights. Even that was enough to invest them with a kind of dramatic glamour. They had transcended being human to become characters in a magical story.
It was captivating to watch them, so much so that he naturally became distracted from what he should have been doing. He lost his place in the music and found that he was simply waving his hands ineffectually in time with the music, which he was making no effort to conduct.
Even so, when the choir burst into enthusiastic applause at the end of the first dance he had no compunction about accepting his share in the credit. He even bowed to acknowledge it.
There was an air of excited anticipation among the choir as Ekaterina Volkova took her opening position for the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’. Sir Aidan waited for a nod from her and then turned to find Metcalfe, who ought to have been seated at the celeste by now, ready to play the distinctive part. But the bloody fool was standing helplessly next to the percussionist, with an expectant look directed towards his conductor.
‘What is it, Metcalfe?’
‘We don’t have a celeste.’
‘What?’
‘We don’t have a celeste.’
‘I heard what you said. My interjection was provoked by incredulity rather than inaudibility. What do you mean, we don’t have one? We absolutely must have one.’
‘Well, we don’t.’
‘Cavendish?’ Sir Aidan looked for his treasurer among the basses.
Cavendish shook his head in the most provoking manner.
‘Don’t just shake your head at me! Where is the celeste?’
‘No one said anything about a celeste.’
‘I should not think it was necessary! We are performing the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy”. Any fool knows that we need a celeste!’ Sir Aidan held up his hands in a gesture of despair and turned on his pianist. ‘Don’t stand there like a malodorous imbecile, Metcalfe, even if that’s what you are. Play the part on the piano for now. Come on, come on. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’
Metcalfe remained rooted to the spot for a moment longer. His gaze, inscrutable as ever, was fixed on Sir Aidan even when he started moving back to the piano. It was unnerving, but Sir Aidan was used to it. Metcalfe always played up a little when he chaffed him.
This time, Sir Aidan did not even look at the orchestra. One hand marked time with loose, sketchy gestures, while he watched the ballerina’s dance closely. Viewed from behind, her body was lithe and slender, taut with a sinuous muscularity. He noted with approval, however, that it curved in places with a gentle femininity. She was not at all scrawny, as some of these dancers could be. He thought in passing that the leotard was the most marvellous of garments, and that a woman’s body was the most marvellous of objects. The combination of the two was as sublime as any piece of music. As a connoisseur of female beauty, which he considered himself to be,
he recognized this moment as one of rare privilege.
The racing of his heart played havoc with his timekeeping. A giddy excitement expanded inside him.
At last the dance came to an end. This time there were whistles and cheers at the end of the piece. Surprisingly for Sir Aidan, he noted that they seemed to grow in warmth when Metcalfe turned his head towards the choir. The conceited ass even bowed his head in acknowledgement! How extraordinary! Could he really believe that this enthusiastic appreciation was for him? Had he not just seen the glorious display of feminine grace and beauty that had taken Sir Aidan’s breath away? Knowing Metcalfe, probably not.
Now it was time for Kuznetsov to step forward. It was natural that Sir Aidan’s interest in the male dancer should be less than in his partner, but his glance was so cursory and dismissive that it could have been taken as insulting. He caught the fierce glare in the other man’s eye. These Russians were a touchy lot, by the looks of it.
He held his baton up and waited for the orchestra to settle. ‘Thank you. Next we have the Trepak, the Russian Dance. Now it’s not just our wonderful dancers who have to be on their toes for this! We all have to be. Myself included. The tempo as you know is given as Prestissimo. Molto Vivace, Prestissimo. Which for me is this.’ He marked the brisk two four beat with several swooping arcs of his baton. ‘I have no doubt at all that you will be able to keep up with that. But I just wanted to give you fair warning that this is going to be … very very fast! And thrilling. And wonderful. So …’ He turned briefly to receive a sullen nod from Kuznetsov.
He held both hands up as if he were holding the orchestra back. His heart was racing with excitement and terror. The dance was played at a fearsome pace. And whenever he had practised it, his forearm had tired before he was halfway through. He even had dreams where he was conducting the piece and his arm became as heavy as lead, or the muscles locked in a painful cramp – either way it was suddenly incapable of any movement at all. Even worse, uncontrollable spasms wracked his arm. In one particularly horrible variation of the dream, the arm detached itself from his shoulder and fell lifeless from his sleeve. How could he have forgotten that he had a false arm? And how could he have been so stupid as to take on the ‘Russian Dance’ with such a disability! At least he should have had the sense to fasten the prosthetic securely.
He shuddered away the memories of his nightmares.
No.
This was a moment to make his own. A moment, even, to enjoy. It was a moment of power, his power. He would not be cowed by the music. Or by the Russian dancer’s glare. Or by the mutinous murmurings of the players. It was a moment of silence that held within it all the pent-up tumult of the glorious, blistering noise that he was about to unleash. For that was what it felt like, an unleashing.
He held himself up tall and breathed deeply through his nostrils, his arms poised and quivering.
Then, with a sudden lurch of energy, he threw himself into the path of the oncoming troika as it galloped full pelt over the ice and snow.
He was caught up and swept along.
His body was thrown this way and that. He kept his right arm swaying frantically, beating time as if he were beating off attackers, thrusting and parrying against the onslaught of music like his life depended on it. As he had feared, his arm grew weary, and sooner than he might have hoped.
But somehow he kept it together and kept it going. He surrendered himself entirely to his instincts. There wasn’t time for conscious thought or intervention. He had to pull himself up into the driving seat of the troika and take hold of the reins.
He noticed that more and more of the musicians were looking to him. Perhaps this had started sceptically, as they allowed themselves a quick glance to enjoy his incompetence, no doubt expecting to see his arms flailing uselessly. But his instincts seemed to be coming through for him. He felt buoyed up, exhilarated. He had stopped being afraid of the tempo and was relishing it.
By the time they reached the rousing fff prestissimo at the end, his sense was that the orchestra regarded him with a new respect.
Of course, in reality, it was over almost as soon as it had begun. And all these impressions of the performance came and went as quickly as the notes themselves.
He let his arms hang limply by his side and bowed his head. ‘We’ll break for lunch now,’ he finally managed to get out, his voice trembling with emotion.
SEVENTEEN
‘Have you seen this?’ Peter Farthing thrust the programme out aggressively.
Paul looked down and scanned the page. ‘What of it?’
‘Am I or am I not to sing the Saint-Saëns “Benedictus” with Dame Elsie Tatton?’
‘I have no idea. Are you?’
‘Yes, I am. Obviously. I would not ask the question in that way if I wasn’t. It was clearly a rhetorical question.’
Paul generally had little time for rhetorical questions. He supposed they had a place in political speeches, or courtroom summations, or advertising copy, but in ordinary conversation they were simply tiresome. ‘And so? Your point?’
‘My point is that only she is credited on the programme, despite the fact that everyone knows it is a duet between soprano and baritone. So who is to sing the baritone part? A ghost?’
Another rhetorical question, no doubt. ‘Look, I’m very sorry, but this is nothing to do with me. I don’t know where you got the idea that it was. You should speak to Cavendish about it. Or Sir Aidan,’ he added as a mischievous afterthought.
‘Oh, don’t you worry, I shall.’
Farthing threw the programme away in disgust. He then went out of his way to knock Paul with his shoulder as he jostled past. He affected the forward-leaning, head-down walk that communicates ‘storming out’.
Paul consulted his pocket watch. An hour had been allotted for lunch, giving people enough time to wander into Hampstead village and back if they wished to. But it was now getting on for an hour and a half since they had broken off, and there was still no sign of Fonthill. Had he taken himself off for a rest after the rigours of the ‘Russian Dance’ and inadvertently fallen asleep somewhere?
Paul spotted Cavendish in the audience seats. He was sitting next to his wife, both unspeaking, their bodies turned away from one another, frozen in a tableau vivant that might have been entitled ‘Loathing’.
Paul casually slipped into the seat next to the treasurer. ‘Where is he?’
No sooner had he sat down than Ursula took herself off.
Cavendish blinked at him as if a spell had been broken. ‘Who?’
‘Sir Aidan, of course. Who else?’
‘How should I know.’
‘Just thought you might. The natives are getting restless, you know.’ It was true. The first quizzical grumblings of some of the more old-womanish choir members (of either sex) had amplified into an unruly din. True to type, the brass players and percussionist had gone off to the pub. Dame Elsie was pacing about operatically. Émile Boland was long gone, as were the Russian dancers, but their part in the rehearsal was at an end anyhow. ‘We ought to start again soon or I fear we may have an out and out mutiny on our hands.’
To which Cavendish replied, rather unexpectedly, ‘I’m leaving Ursula.’
‘Oh.’
‘Or she’s leaving me. I’m not quite certain which. At any rate, we’re leaving each other.’
‘I’m … sorry.’
‘I’m not.’
‘What brought it on?’
‘She’s in love with him.’
‘Yes, I’d rather gathered that.’
‘He’s not interested, of course.’
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘No. I can see that.’ Paul winced sympathetically. ‘Well, if you’re … not sorry. Then you’re … happy? Perhaps?’
‘I’m not that either.’
‘No. Sorry. Stupid thing to say.’
‘We’ll do the concert, then go our separate ways. I have decided to apply
for a commission.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Paul felt a pang of conscience. If even Cavendish was thinking of answering the call to the colours then perhaps he should too?
Paul felt himself blush and did his best to change the subject. ‘By the way, I just bumped into that Farthing fellow. Quite literally, as it happens. He seems none too pleased about not getting top billing on the programme, or some such. Positively murderous, he was.’ But he could see that Cavendish was not interested. In fact, the other man frowned at him as if he had been speaking in a foreign language.
The two men sat next to each other in silence for a few minutes longer.
‘Well, I suppose someone ought to go and look for his nibs, if only to save him from the wrath of the Farthing. Shall it be me? Not that I have any particular desire to protect him. But, well, you know. One can hardly condone violence.’
Cavendish looked at Paul uncertainly as if he could not quite place his face. It was a disconcerting sensation, which Paul was anxious to flee.
He looked around for Lady Emma. Perhaps she would know where Fonthill was? Although, given what he now knew about the state of their marriage, would she care? As it happened, there was no sign of her.
There was no sign either of Donald Metcalfe, which was odd because usually the accompanist did not go far from the piano during breaks. It was his habit to sit on the piano stool, eating the potted beef sandwiches that his mother made for him or drinking tea from a Thermos flask.
