‘Then get your teacher to explain the workings of this thing that is, at present, a mystery to you – that is, if your teacher is, in fact, musically competent enough to understand it himself, and pass on the information, for we shall, please God, move on to that page next week.’
There was now a susurration of whispers in the room, as players exchanged horrified opinions of what was being said.
‘Silence!’ shouted Dashwood. ‘I’m only saying this for your own good. You want Swinbury Abbot to be proud of its band, don’t you? Well, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, let me help you to reach that point. If you work hard and take my advice, you could be the best village band in the area. And while we’re at it, the vicar told me what you call yourselves, letting me in on the little joke, and I must tell you this – I do not approve. It is a negative title, inviting negative criticism of your performances. I suggest that from now on, you should style yourselves ‘The Swinbury Village Band’, and give people exactly what it says on the label.
‘Silence! Quiet, I say! I haven’t finished yet! We’ve still got a quarter of an hour. Mr McKnight, I would like you to swap parts with Ms Radcliffe. No, don’t protest. I have listened to you play, and although you play with a great deal of panache, your tuning leaves a lot to be desired. May I suggest that you work very hard to play in tune, or I shall have no further need for you in this band?
‘And Ms Radcliffe, although you show no style with your bow, and do not even attempt any vibrato, at least you play accurately, and I should like you, for now, to take over the part of first violin. Now swap parts, and let’s have no argument about it. If it doesn’t work, we can always swap back – that is, if I detect any improvement in your tuning, Mr McKnight.’
The tirade worked its way through all the members of the band. Little Wendy Burnett was upbraided for not having a small glass or eggcup of water beside her, so that she didn’t have to constantly keep the double reed in her mouth, to keep it moist.
Fern Bailey was informed that her bow was not sufficiently anointed and consequently squealed on the strings, which didn’t matter too much, as she hardly moved her bow at all, and would have to learn to do so if her part was ever going to be sufficiently loud to be heard. ‘Your instrument should sing like a rich contralto. With your bowing, it’s more like the croaking of a drunken old crone in the pub at closing time on a Saturday night,’ he informed her, causing her to wish a hole would open up in the floor, and swallow her up,
Vanessa Palfreyman, unfortunately, had not noticed that her entrance was marked ‘arco’, and she had plucked it. ‘The devil is in the detail!’ she had been informed, a comment that had been accompanied with an acid little smile of superiority that didn’t reach Dashwood’s eyes. ‘If you paid more attention, and spent less time joking and clowning around, you might sound as if you actually know how to play your instrument,’ he upbraided her acidly.
To Geraldine Warwick, whose piccolo had had no parts written for it for some time, and who felt desperately underused, he upbraided her, ‘Miss Warwick, for goodness sake watch your music and count. You don’t have many entries, and you missed all of them. As you finally have a printed part to play, I should think you ought to be grateful, and play every note with great accuracy and skill. Pay attention!’
Lester Westlake, who hadn’t yet mastered playing any other volume than ‘molto belto’, was asked to bring a spare pair of socks with him in future, so that they could be put in the bell of his saxophone to act as a mute, until he had mastered the technicalities of dynamics.
‘I have also noted, from a little chat I had with Mr Midwynter, that you miss a lot of rehearsals, Mr Westlake. I would ask you to arrange your affairs more efficiently, to ensure that this does not happen under my baton. Thank you!’
He turned his attention, next, to Gayle Potten and her flute, although the flute didn’t even get a mention in his criticism, as he addressed his contumely entirely to her attire. ‘Ms Potten, may I ask you to, for God’s sake, wear something that covers your body. You look like you’ve just come from a burlesque performance, and have done every time I’ve seen you. You need to dress more appropriately, my good woman, to be a member of this band.’
Harold Grimes had been left till last, as Dashwood was in a state of utter disbelief as to how he had ever been allowed to join the band, and had made his mission for this evening, to find out. ‘Mr Grimes,’ he started. ‘How long have you been a member of this band?’
‘Two years – no, I tell a lie. Two and a half years.’
‘And how long have you been playing the trumpet?’
‘About the same time.’
‘Pray, tell he how that is so, that you could become a member, when you had just commenced playing the instrument?’
‘I used to come along to practices with my lady friend, Gayle – plays the flute – and Myles suggested I had a go at an instrument, then I could join in, instead of just sitting on the sidelines.’
‘And how long was it before you were able to participate in the rehearsal sessions?’
‘Oh, not long.’
‘And yet I found you marking in the notes on your part, earlier in the evening. Can you explain that to me?’
‘Easily. Once I got the hang of some of the notes, the last Musical Director but one wrote very simple parts for me, for all the pieces they were likely to play, and spent some time going through them with me, until I knew them off by heart. That’s what I said earlier. I’m not used to ‘reading’ music. I can play it if I know it, and it’s not too difficult, but this thing you’ve given us this evening just looks like a load of hieroglyphics to me.’
A silence fell, after this little speech, and Dashwood stood absolutely still, his eyes clamped tight shut, for a good ten seconds. Then he opened them again, and with a falsely bright smile, said, ‘There is just one announcement, before we finish for the evening. I need to get a feel for the acoustics in the church for our performance, and I want to do this as soon as possible, so that I can work out the instrumental seating for the actual performance.
‘I should like you to come along after the Sunday morning service, if you’re not already there, with your instruments, and we’ll just play through something that you’re familiar with – God willing that such a piece exists! It shouldn’t take up too much of your time, for those of you who have luncheon appointments. And just one more thing – if there are any of you who would like some private tuition, I am available for hire, at very moderate rates. Thank you very much for your attention this evening, and I shall see you all on Sunday. And remember – practise, practise, practise!’
That ten seconds of silent reflection with his eyes closed must have done him the world of good, as he had ceased to be the power-crazed dictator that they were just getting used to, and suddenly, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He either had a dual personality, or it was the mention of making a few bob out of some of them from lessons. Who could tell?
As they filed outside, Myles piped up with, ‘Back to ours again?’ to be answered with a resounding ‘Yes’. They had an awful lot to get off their chests after enduring such a harangue, and, at least when they got back to The Grange, Acker gave them such a joyous welcome, as if he’d been alone for days instead of for a couple of hours, that he raised a smile from everyone.
Chapter Four
Saturday 10th July – conversations
I
‘He’s an absolute pill,’ declared Myles to Myrtle, gathering things together for a barbecue, as the weather was so glorious.
‘I know, Myles, but we’ve got to stick it out until after the concert. The vicar would be so disappointed, and you know how he looks when he’s been let down – just like a kicked puppy. Anyway, it’s a point of honour, and you agreed,’ she replied, assembling the various utensils needed for handling food over real flames. ‘And put your apron on; you’ll frighten the horses.’
‘No one can see me out there. You’d
need a step ladder to see over those hedges, and I don’t give a fig, if anyone wants to go to that much trouble, just to have a look at little old me,’ was his unconcerned answer. ‘And as far as the band goes, I’m already gritting my teeth so much, that I think they’ll be worn down to the gums, by the time we get to the concert.’
‘He was particularly horrid last night, wasn’t he?’
‘Horrid? He was positively poisonous! I’ve been using a three-and-a-half reed for years. How dare he! And as for what he said about you, I could have throttled him.’
‘Well, at least he was fair, and verbally crucified each and every one of us, I suppose. Just try to stick it out, then we can tell him that we no longer require his services, and we can go back to the way things used to be,’ said Myrtle, offering her husband words of comfort in his time of need.
‘Have you got that meat out of the fridge? Ah, the way things used to be; and just a few short weeks ago. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago, and those times are just distant memories.’
‘Don’t get maudlin. I’ll just take this tray of stuff outside, so that it’s ready for you to get started. The charcoal should be hot enough by now.’
As Myrtle disappeared through the back door, there was a knock at the front door, and Myles trotted off to answer it, making sure he had his apron tied on securely. ‘Hello, old chap. What can we do for you, on this sunny summer’s day?’ he asked, finding Edmund Alexander standing on the doorstep looking particularly glum.
‘I need someone to sound off to. Sorry to bother you and all that, but the most ghastly thing’s happened.’
‘Come through and tell us all about it,’ offered Myles. ‘We’re just starting a barbecue, and I always cook far too much for just the two of us. Why don’t you join us for a bite to eat, and get whatever it is off your chest?’ As he said this, he turned round and started to walk through the house,
Staring after him in disbelief, Edmund realised that Myles had got something off more than his chest. His back view exposed, it became obvious that he was stark naked under his apron, and the keyboard player was mesmerised as he trailed in his wake, by the bobbing of the brown buttocks beneath the apron strings, their colour confirming that nakedness was no new fad for Myles.
‘I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time,’ he said, wondering what on earth was going to meet his gaze when he got outside. Would Myrtle be similarly un-attired?
But he was soon relieved of this worry. Myrtle met them at the back door, modestly attired for the hot weather, their golden retriever, Acker, bouncing round her legs, and welcomed him, explaining that Myles simply didn’t like wearing clothes in the house or garden. He made an exception for band nights, but, if no one was expected, this was how a visitor would find him. ‘And at least he’s wearing an apron,’ she concluded, with a little smile.
Myrtle was sensibly clothed in a sleeveless tee-shirt and shorts, and totally dispelled the aura of the bizarre that Myles’ near-nakedness had lent to the trek through the house.
Moving over to the barbecue, Myles asked, ‘So, whatever’s got your goat, Edmund, old fellow. You looked about as jolly as the angel of death when I opened the door to you.’
‘I’ve just had a phone call from the vicar.’
‘What’s so dire about that? At least he wasn’t standing on your doorstep, actually bleating into your face – I say, old chap, no offence meant; always glad to see you and all that.’ Myles was quick to identify a faint nuance of disapproval in his comment, at Edmund’s visit, and was quick to dispel it, as it had been quite unintentional; just an unfortunate wording on his part. ‘You know what the old blether’s like.’
‘I do now!’ answered Edmund, his voice deeper than usual, and his face clouding over. ‘Do you know what that bastard’s done – sorry Myrtle, not fit language and all that, but I’m really steamed up.’
‘Don’t apologise, Edmund. I said an awful lot of equally bad words yesterday evening, when everyone had gone home, so be my guest. What has the vicar done? He’s usually as mild as milk.’
‘The bastard has only gone and sacked me as church organist.’
‘Never!’ exclaimed Myles
‘He can’t!’ declared Myrtle, shocked into speech.
‘He damned well has!’
‘Well, who’s going to play the organ on Sundays, now?’ Myles was first to enquire.
‘Can’t you guess? Someone, perhaps, who can actually play the thing, and not mess up every hymn?’
‘No!’ Myrtle had worked it out.
‘Not that Dashwood horror?’ So had Myles.
‘Got it in one! And I’m just discarded like an old rag, after all these years of service. Not even a proper ‘thank you and goodbye’. Just a brush off, and his reverence was sure I’d be relieved, as it had been such a struggle for me, etc. I’m so furious, I could throttle both of them!’
‘And we’ll bloody well help you,’ offered Myles. ‘It was that smarmy dog-collared bugger who foisted Dashwood on us in the first place. I never thought he could be so two-faced, and here was us, talking about not disappointing him about the concert.’
There was a full minute of silence, as all three were lost in thought, then Myrtle spoke. ‘We’ve still got to go through with that. I don’t give a flying fig about disappointing the vicar any more, after this, but we mustn’t disappoint the charity. Of course, I don’t give a damn about his church restoration fund now, but we can’t let the Air Ambulance suffer because of pettiness. Yes – I know this isn’t petty, but we ought to rise above it, just until after the concert, then we can tell them both where to stuff it.’
‘Wise words, my dear; wise words.’
‘But what about me?’ wailed Edmund. ‘What am I going to do? He’s taken over the accompaniment at the band practices as well.’
‘You’re going to turn the pages for him like a good little boy, and leave the rest to me; that’s what you’re going to do. I have the nugget of a plan forming in my head, which I’ll have to refine, but I’ll tell you about that, when I’ve figured it all out.’
‘Oh, come on Myles; don’t be mean. What are you thinking of doing?’
‘Not yet, my pretties. I need to work out the details, then I’ll let you in on it. Fear not, for help is at hand,’ he declaimed, brandishing a barbecue fork in the air like a sword.
‘Silly sod!’ said Myrtle. ‘Now you’ve dripped fat all down your apron. It’s lucky you were wearing it, or you’d have basted your own sausage!’
As Edmund wandered disconsolately round the walled garden, waiting for the food to be served, he found himself approaching the south-east corner, where the wall that divided the front garden from the back, joined the perimeter wall, and just stared, surprised out of his glum frame of mind.
‘Myles,’ he called in astonishment. You’ve got a positive jungle over here. These surely can’t be those plants you put in a few years ago: the ones we said would never survive, because they were sort of tropical.’
‘They are, old son,’ called back Myles from his position in front of the barbecue. ‘The walls protect them, and the bricks hold the heat, like a night storage heater. I told you all they’d grow, and no one believed me. Well, look and believe now. Look and believe!’
‘It’s astonishing. I’d never have thought it possible, but they’re magnificent,’ called back Edmund, staring at two palms, a whole cluster of large-leaved plants that looked very alien in such temperate climes, and a variety of large ferns and other exotic growths, obviously flourishing in their position, and with no intention whatsoever of curling up and dying.
‘It’s always good to be proved right,’ returned Myles, turning a row of sausages and considering them done. ‘Come on, Edmund! Grub up!’
II
Lester Westlake entered The Clocky Hen, feeling instantly battered by the volume of the music from the jukebox, and the babble of conversation, and was glad of it. He was still smarting about being asked to put, not ‘a’, but a pair,
of socks in it – his saxophone, that is – the night before.
He knew that this particular pub was always heaving on a Saturday lunchtime, due to the amount of custom it got from the Wild Flowers Estate, and he craved the noise and the crush, to curb the incessant ranting of his brain, about how unfairly he had been picked on. He was egotistical enough to have ignored the cutting and acerbic comments that had been levelled at the others, remembering only his own embarrassment and ire.
As he approached the bar, a voice hailed him, and he saw Harold Grimes perched on a stool, a nearly empty pint glass on the bar top, in front of him. ‘Hello there, me old mate, Lester. What’ll you have? I was just about to order?’
‘A pint of best,’ he responded automatically, and then couldn’t make up his mind whether he was glad or not of the familiar company. Granted, he had sought anonymity by not going to The Leathern Bottle, but the sight of Harold, one who would understand how he was feeling, was a positive, rather than a negative. Sitting together at practices had forged a bond between them. Their instruments were different from the others, and that made them kinsmen, in Lester’s eyes.
‘Come and prop yourself up next to me here, and tell me what’s up,’ called Harold across the tops of the heads of the people who still separated them. ‘You look like you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence.’
‘It’s just last night,’ Lester replied, finally fighting his way through to the bar, and settling beside his comrade. ‘That bloody, pompous dipstick! Socks? I’ll give him bloody socks, and not where he’s expecting them either.’
‘Don’t let him get to you. He’ll get his comeuppance when we drop him like a hot potato after the concert.’
‘Do you think so?’ Lester had not considered this idea.
‘Of course he will. Can you see Myles and Myrtle putting up with all this shit once we’ve done our bit? No, we’ll go back to practices at theirs, and it’ll be just like before.’
‘I don’t know how many more rehearsals I can put up with,’ Lester admitted. ‘It’s worse than being at school. There’s not another person on this planet who could speak to me like that and not get a bunch of fives.’
Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6) Page 6
