A Remembered Serenade

by Mary Burchell

  At the end of twenty minutes she had almost reached the box office when a side door swung open and out came Elliot Cheam. Overcome by inexplicable shyness, she would have let him pass without a sign. But he suddenly pulled up beside her and exclaimed, 'Hello! What are you doing, queueing for tickets?'

  'The same as everyone else.' She smiled back at him. 'Waiting my turn, of course.'

  'Nonsense. I'll see you have tickets.' He took her arm lightly and drew her away from the queue. 'When do you want to go?'

  'But I couldn't let you - I mean, I've no special claim.'

  'Of course you have. You brought us luck at the dress rehearsal, didn't you? and gave us our first good notice.' He grinned and took out a notebook. 'What evening?'

  'Well, Mother and I thought Monday night might be less crowded.'

  'You really are the perfect member of the public, aren't you?' He laughed outright as he scribbled down something in his book. 'Ask at the box office fifteen minutes before curtain time on Monday. The tickets will be there in your name.'

  'Thank you very much. And, Mr. Cheam—'

  'Elliot is the name.'

  'Elliot, then. There's something I must tell you—'

  'Mr. Cheam—' someone looked out of the box office - 'you're wanted on the phone in your office. Call from New York ,'

  Most of the waiting people turned an interested glance on Mr. Cheam at this arresting piece of infor­mation, and even Joanna was included in this scrutiny since he patted her arm as he said,

  'All right. Enjoy yourself on Monday.' Then, with a quick smile, he went back through the side door, leav­ing her pretty sure that he had not even heard her last words.

  It was possible, she told herself, that she might catch a glimpse of him on Monday evening, when she would insist on telling him that she was, after all, going to Wilmore Manor on the express (and unsolicited) in­vitation of his uncle. But when Monday evening came, although the tickets were waiting at the box office as promised, there was no sign of Elliot in the front of the house.

  The seats were excellent ones, and her mother re­lented still further in her judgment of the producer. Indeed, when he and the author finally joined the cast for the last curtain, she whispered, 'Is he that very good-looking young man, or the one with the thinning hair?'

  'He's the good-looking one. If you would call him good-looking,' added Joanna judicially.

  'Most women would,' replied her mother simply.

  Joanna wondered if she could summon enough courage to go round backstage, to thank him for the tickets and introduce her mother. But when they came out of the theatre it was raining hard and, by great good luck, a taxi drew up just in front of them.

  'Jump in, darling,' her mother exclaimed, 'We can allow ourselves the luxury of a taxi home, considering the tickets were given to us.'

  So they drove off, and Joanna decided she would write to Elliot, somehow embodying in her letter of thanks the casual information that she was going to the Manor at the week-end, after all. But it was all much too difficult when she came to the point. So, finally abandoning the attempt, she telephoned instead,

  A pleasant female voice answered from Elliot Cheam's office. And when Joanna asked if she might speak to him, the female voice said - in the manner of all secretaries stalling on behalf of a busy boss - that Mr. Cheam had just gone out and she really didn't know when he might return, but could she do any­thing?

  Joanna gave up further attempts at that point, merely leaving her name and asking that her thanks should be conveyed to Mr. Cheam for the tickets, with the added information that she and her mother had greatly enjoyed the performance.

  'I'll be sure to tell him,’ the pleasant voice promised. And there the matter rested.

  'I've done all I can,' Joanna told herself defensively. 'Now I'm just going to enjoy my week-end - and ex­plain about it later.'

  And with this decision made, she suddenly found that she could look forward to the week-end visit with an almost tranquil mind.

  She travelled down by train this time, since Mr. Wil-more had told her she would be met by car at the nearest station, about three miles from the Manor. She had assumed that the car would be a hired one, or chauffeur-driven, but as she came out of the charming little country station she saw Mr. Wilmore himself waiting; for her.

  This added the last drop to her cup of happiness and, on the short drive to the Manor, she chattered eagerly to him, telling him - among other things -about the success of his nephew's production and how much she and her mother had enjoyed the per­formance.

  'I saw the notices were good,' he agreed. 'I had hoped Elliot might have come down this week-end, but I gather he'll be too busy. It's a pity.'

  Joanna said, 'Yes,' not very truthfully, and then changed the subject to her own rehearsals for 'The Love of Three Kings's.’

  He was amused and pleased, she saw, to hear that she had been praised for her insight into the part of Fiora, and asked with genuine interest how her sing­ing studies were going. She explained ruefully about the enforced change of teacher, and he looked grave about that, particularly when she added that this situ­ation might well last until after the performances.

  'And you don't like your present teacher?' he asked with concern.

  'I don't dislike him,' Joanna explained quickly, 'only we don't seem to be on each other's wavelength, if I can put it that way.'

  'It's a very good way to put it,' he said with a slight frown, 'and describes a rather serious situation. In my experience, unless there is personal rapport between student and teacher, the instruction is largely useless. We must see what can be done about this. Particularly with such an important performance coming up. Given reasonably good fortune, you might make quite a sen­sation as Fiora. And these things can count very much when one is first trying to attract attention.'

  'I don't think,' Joanna told him diffidently, 'that anything can be done about it at the moment. Most of the vocal staff at the College are very much committed with their own work, naturally. I was lucky, I suppose, that someone could take me at all.'

  'There is such a thing as private coaching,' replied her host, and he set his pleasant mouth with unusual firmness.

  'Oh, but that can be terribly expensive! and my grant probably wouldn't apply there,' she said. T shall manage all right. It's unfortunate Miss Drayfield should be away at this particular point. But one has to accept these crises in any career, I suppose.' She sighed slightly.

  'Not necessarily,' he replied. 'Not if one has friends who are interested.'

  And then they arrived at the Manor, and a few minutes later Joanna was being conducted upstairs by Mrs. Trimble and into the room she already thought of affectionately as hers.

  'How lovely it all looks!' She glanced round con­tentedly. 'And how nice to see you again, Mrs. Trimble. You were so kind to me last time, and helped to make it such a memorable occasion.'

  'I hope this will be another memorable occasion, Miss Joanna.' The housekeeper smiled, and Joanna was not unaware of the significant change in the form of address. 'Just come down when you're ready. Dinner is at eight, but I expect you would like a sherry with Mr. Wilmore first. Sir Oscar and Lady War-render are not arriving until much later. They had to dine in town.'

  So Joanna was able to relax and just enjoy the even­ing with her charming host, without feeling keyed up to make a good impression on the famous couple who were to share her week-end.

  It was quite late in the evening when Mr.- Wilmore said, 'Do you realize I haven't actually heard you sing yet? You look and move and even sometimes laugh in a way that reminds me irresistibly of Emilia. But what about the voice, I wonder?'

  'Mr. Wilmore, please don't think of me in the Tran-goni class,' Joanna said earnestly. 'She reached inter­national standard even in her short career. I don't make any pretensions—'

  'I know you don't. But - will you sing for me?'

  'Of course, if you would like me to!' Joanna went over to the piano immediately.

&
nbsp; 'Shall I play for you?' he asked unexpectedly.

  'Please do - if you would be so kind.' She had already seen the vocal score of 'The Love of Three Kings' on the piano. 'You want me to sing something from this?'

  'I should like that very much. From the first act?' he suggested. And when Joanna nodded he flicked over the pages and then began to play the long introduction to one of Flora's most beautiful passages.

  He played well, she noticed, with great feeling for the work, which was understandable in the circum­stances. And she on her side tried to put into her sing­ing all the subtle understanding of the role which her contact with him had given to her. Hers was not an outstandingly big voice, but she used it well, and the way she had begun to identify herself with Fiora helped her to give great poignancy and warmth to her interpretation.

  Again it was perhaps inevitable that he should find a moving parallel between Joanna and the girl with whom he so personally associated the part. There was not very much lighting in the room, and most of what there was was concentrated over the piano. Joanna was rather in shadow and because she was a good actress — very much better that she herself had any idea - the result was quite stunning.

  'It's almost unbelievable!' he exclaimed, his voice slightly unsteady with excitement and pleasure. 'Even the voice is similar, in some strange way. My dear child, you have no idea how much pleasure you have given me! And, in return, if any special coaching is needed for the perfecting of the role— Well, we'll talk of that later,' he said, breaking off sharply, as there were unmistakable sounds of the Warrenders ar­riving.

  They came in like beings from another world, Joanna could not help thinking, their strong, clearly-defined personalities contrasting in the most extra­ordinary way with the half dreamlike scene which Justin Wilmore and she had created out of music and memories and the overall impression of the girl who had been in this house over thirty years ago.

  Both the Warrenders seemed to remember her with some pleasure. At any rate, Anthea certainly did, and her famous husband went satisfactorily through the motions of appearing to do so, though Joanna thought she detected a certain degree of indifference beneath the surface. She did not hold it against him if that were the case. After all, she was pretty small fry in the War-render world, and she was, as she knew, remarkably lucky to be there at all.

  It was all very charming and enjoyable and, for Joanna at any rate, exciting, And when she finally went to bed in her already much-loved room, she felt that the week-end had made a wonderful beginning.

  As she reflected on the scene just before the War-renders' arrival, she tried to decide how much of Justin Wilmore's praise had been due to her actual gifts, and how much to the way she reminded him of what had obviously been the dearest person in his life. At any rate, she was glad the Warrenders had come in before he could say more about special coaching for her. There were limits to what one could accept from even the kindest of new friends.

  The next day provided, as Mr. Wilmore had prom­ised, a delightful degree of relaxation. They all spent a good deal of time in the beautiful garden, for although it was October, the day was exceptionally fine and sunny.Much of the conversation, as might be ex­pected, concerned the musical world, and Joanna listened eagerly and, without putting herself forward, tried to make sensible and reasonably knowledgeable replies when actually drawn into the discussion.

  She left it to her host to speak about her own talents, only modifying his praise with a few murmurs of pro­test; But when Oscar Warrender said, 'We must hear you some time this evening,' she thought he really meant it, and that his rather alarming glance rested on her for a moment with a touch of genuine interest.

  It was Anthea who said to her during the afternoon, 'It's rather touching and lovely that you should please Justin so much in the role of Flora. Trangoni was his favourite artist - in fact, I think he was going to marry her when she was killed, poor girl - and she was specially associated with that role,'

  'Yes, so he told me. It - troubles me a little, as well as pleasing me, as a matter of fact.'

  'Why?' Anthea gave her a quick, inquiring glance.

  'He seems to find quite a striking likeness between her and me, and last night, just before you arrived, I sang for him and he said even the voices were alike. I'm flattered, in a way, and only too pleased if it makes him happy. But I can't help thinking that perhaps his judg­ment of me as an artist is coloured by a certain amount of charming nostalgia,'

  'Would it matter?' Anthea looked reflective. 'I mean if it's just a question of giving him pleasure.'

  'Yes, I think it would. For one thing, one doesn't want to be just a shadow of someone else—'

  'Oh, of course not.'

  'And secondly, though I'm deeply grateful for his interest, I should be embarrassed if he assessed me far beyond my real talents and wanted to put me forward in that light. To anyone like Sir Oscar, for instance.'

  'Yes, I see. Though you're being unusually modest for anyone in our profession,' Anthea said with a laugh. 'At least you needn't worry so far as my husband is concerned^ He's never influenced by anyone else's opinion beforehand. If he hears you - and I'm sure he means to - you'll get the exact truth. Whether you want it or not, I'm afraid,' she added with a warning smile.

  'I wouldn't want anything else,' Joanna declared earnestly. I was only thinking that he might well feel he was being asked to waste his time,'

  'Oh, no!' Anthea was emphatic about that, 'He's always interested in voices. As he says, the fascinating thing is that one never knows where God will put a voice. Oscar found me in a rather stupid contest in a provincial town,' she added with a reminiscent smile.

  'Did he?' Joanna looked intrigued. 'And was he thrilled?'

  'If so, he concealed the fact at first,' Anthea said ruefully. 'He turned me down flat, in favour of another girl, who was very gifted though without a really fine voice.'

  'You mean he didn't recognize your potential?' Joanna was shocked.

  'Oh, yes, of course he did. He's a wizard in these matters. But he decided on the instant that a little easy success in the beginning would probably ruin me. So he saw to it that I lost the prize, and later arranged - in a rather devious way, I must admit - that he should himself take over my training.'

  'Wasn't that a ruthless way of doing things?' Joanna sounded slightly disapproving.

  'Yes, of course,' Anthea agreed. 'But then Oscar is ruthless,' she added cheerfully. 'That's partly why he's a great musical director, I suppose,'

  'I see,' said Joanna soberly. And presently she slipped away to her room and did a little anxious prac­tising on her own. If she were to perform for the ruth­less Sir Oscar, she had better see that at least she was in good voice.

  The great moment came in the early evening, when, they had all gathered in the drawing-room about an hour before dinner, and Warrender said abruptly, 'I'd like to hear you now, Miss Joanna. What are you going to sing for me?'

  'She must sing some of Fiora's music,' put in Mr. Wilmore quickly.

  'No, She can do so later.' The conductor was pleasant but firm. 'We'll have a little pure singing first. Do you sing any Mozart?'

  'Pa-Pamina,' suggested Joanna timidly.

  'Come, Pamina's music is a good enough test,' said Warrender amusedly and sat down at the piano. ' "Ach, ich fuhls"?'

  Joanna nodded.

  'Don't be frightened. Come and stand in the curve of the piano where I can see you,' ordered Warrender, as he had to many a scared performer before. 'Take your time, and think just what the words mean.'

  She did as she was told and, nervous though she was, she felt somehow comforted by the commanding little smile that the conductor gave her just as she made her entry. To her surprise, it was all distinctly easier than she had feared. She kept her eyes on him most of the time and, by the slightest glance or movement of his hand, he conveyed to her what it was she should be doing.

  'Um-hm,' he said, noncommittally but not discouragingly, at the end. 'Now let's hear wh
at you've been doing with Fiora.'

  This was familiar ground for Joanna - tempera­mentally suited to her, carefully and lovingly studied, and of very personal interest. Insensibly she relaxed and, after the first two bars, she was back in the identity of the tragic character which so deeply fascinated her. She no longer stood rigidly in the curve of the piano, though her slight movements were economical and of unfailing significance, while her mobile face became even more expressive than the phrases she was sing­ing.

  She was lost in the part, unaware of the people around her, or of the slight stir in the hall of someone arriving. As Warrender ceased playing, she closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again, like someone coming out of a half-sleep. Then she looked across at the conductor.

  'You want the exact truth, I take it?' he said, leaning back and regarding her with some interest.

  'Of - of course.'

  'Not "of course" at all,' Warrender assured her. 'Few people want the exact truth, unless it coincides with what they hope to hear. But I am going to tell you right away - you have not got what is called a great voice. I'm not even sure you have an operatic voice at all. On the other hand—'

  He paused, for at that moment the drawing-room door opened, and into the room came Elliot Cheam.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  'My dear boy! What a delightful surprise!'

  Mr. Wilmore's pleasure and astonishment were such that he accepted even this interruption to Oscar Warrender's pronouncement with equanimity. And both the conductor and his wife were also undeniably pleased at Elliot Cheam's unexpected appearance.

  Only Joanna, standing wordless by the piano, was frozen into a sort of rigid dismay. She had not even had time to recover from the shock of Warrender's verdict -or receive whatever comfort might follow his words 'on the other hand' - before the very thing she had most dreaded was upon her, like something in a bad dream.

  Here she was, a guest in his uncle's house, after she had protested to Elliot with such vehemence that nothing was further from her intentions than to get herself invited to Wilmore Manor while the War-renders were there.