A Remembered Serenade

by Mary Burchell

  As for Elliot, it was plain from his expression what he was thinking. He greeted his uncle and the Warrenders with easy friendliness, explaining how he had unex­pectedly managed to be free from his theatre com­mitments, and then paused for a moment before Joanna. With a smile which chilled her heart but made her cheeks hot, he said lightly, 'I thought perhaps I might find you here.'

  Then, before anything else could be said, the man­servant appeared at the door and announced that dinner was served.

  'Come, you couldn't have arrived at a better moment, Elliot.' His uncle clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. 'Over dinner you must tell us all about your first night. And we must also hear what Warrender has to say about Joanna, who has just been singing to us.'

  'I thought he had already pronounced,' replied Elliot dryly as they went into the dining-room. 'Didn't I hear something about hers not being an operatic voice, as I came in?'

  'That statement, unqualified, would not be the whole truth,' said the conductor, as they took their seats at the round, candle-lit table; 'I'm sorry the inter­ruption came just when it did, for I must have left Miss Joanna feeling somewhat dashed.'

  'It's all right.' Somehow Joanna fought down her terrible disappointment as well as her shock over Elliot's arrival, and even managed to give the con­ductor an unsteady smile. 'I never had very exagger­ated notions of my gifts. It was just—'

  'That you felt, given the right boost, you might make it?' suggested Elliot smoothly. The words themselves were inoffensive, and Joanna doubted if anyone else at the table knew that they carried a special sting. But she knew what he meant, and she felt as though he had slapped her in the face.

  Then unexpectedly Anthea Warrender spoke, and her clear, sweet but somehow authoritative voice car­ried a sound of rescue to Joanna's ears.

  'Could we please hear all of what Oscar was going to say?' she suggested. 'As a singer myself, I sympathize very much with Joanna, who's heard only the more critical half of the verdict so far.'

  'Certainly let us have the sugar on the pill,' agreed Elliot. But this time he had gone too far.

  'Stop making snide remarks, Elliot Cheam,' said Anthea crisply and, Joanna noted with some satisfac­tion, he then looked a little as though his face had been slapped. 'If you're sore because your play isn't the number one topic, you might remember that it was Joanna who encouraged you and boosted your morale, just before the first night of your play.'

  'My apologies,' murmured Elliot, a good deal startled, while Warrender looked amused at his wife's deter­mination to clear the decks for whatever he had to say.

  'Thank you.' He gave Anthea a slight, mocking bow. And the implication that it was his interests rather than hers that were being taken care of steadied Joanna a little. 'As I said - and as you probably sense yourself -yours is not a great voice of unique quality. More a good instrument, musically and intelligently used. With luck - on which none of us can count - you might make an operatic career. But I would not care to bank on that. What you have got, however, unless I'm much mistaken, is a quite remarkable dramatic talent. She should interest you, Elliot—' he turned suddenly to Cheam, who was studying the wine in his glass, as though the discussion held no interest for him.

  Elliot glanced up.

  'I'm not looking for new dramatic talent at the moment,' he stated coolly.

  'No?' Warrender smiled dryly. 'When you get to my age you'll realize one looks humbly for real talent all the time.'

  'Well, of course—' Elliot was slightly taken aback. 'But in this case—'

  He left the sentence unfinished, as though that in itself should express his opinion. But Warrender was too old a hand to accept an answer that lacked clear definition.

  'In this case—?' he repeated, and Elliot shifted slightly and frowned.

  'My dear Warrender, I cannot help wondering what opportunity you can have had to test Miss Ransome's dramatic talent. She has sung to you - in a drawing-room, quite informally. I would accept your musical judgment anywhere, of course, in any circum­stances—'

  'Too kind of you,' interjected Warrender disagree­ably.

  '—but so far as her theatrical abilities are concerned—'

  'I am not without theatrical experience either,' said Oscar Warrender with deceptive mildness. 'I merely suggest—'

  'Please!' Choking with embarrassment and the difficulty of controlling her tears, Joanna interrupted almost fiercely. 'Can't we change the subject? It's dreadful to be the cause of an argument across Mr. Wilmore's dinner table. I mean -I mean—'

  'You mean it almost makes you wish you weren't here.' Elliot smiled dangerously at her. 'Let us change the subject, by all means.' And he began to talk about the first night of his new production, so entertainingly and amusingly that the tension relaxed immediately.

  Even Joanna managed to contribute her quota of smiling interest. Though no one - except perhaps Elliot Cheam - could have guessed what the effort cost her. The dramatic talent with which Oscar Warrender had credited her would never be more sorely needed, she thought desperately, than it was needed that evening.

  It was over at last, that dinner which anyone might have envied her, that evening which should have been an opera-lover's dream. She had managed to make her host believe she was really enjoying herself; she had concealed from the Warrenders that his verdict had dealt a mortal blow to her fondest hopes; and, above all, she hoped and believed she had convinced Elliot Cheam that she cared less than nothing about anything he might think of her.

  When at last bedtime came and she felt she could make her retreat, she bade everyone a charming good night and went out of the room, her dignity and self-respect still almost intact.

  She was half-way up the stairs when she realized that she had left her favourite scarf behind her, and reluctantly she went back. As she reached the drawing-room door, however, she heard Mr. Wilmore say,

  'She's a brave girl, but I'm afraid she was desper­ately disappointed, though she put a good face on it. I wonder if perhaps, with extra coaching of some sort—'

  'She's a tough little cookie, as a matter of fact, under that dewy-eyed exterior,' his nephew cut in. 'If you want my opinion—'

  And then Joanna fled back up the stairs, willing to lose her scarf for ever, rather than listen to any more discussion about herself. Tough little cookie, indeed! Vulgar, horrid, ill-wishing beast that he was!

  She flung herself on the bed and wept - the hot, heartbreaking tears she had kept back all the evening. Without Elliot Cheam to add his odious, disparaging comments and contemptuous glances, she thought she could have borne the crushing disappointment of Oscar Warrender's verdict. He had given it not un-kindly, and she had assured him beforehand that she wanted the absolute truth.

  She still wanted the truth, she supposed, for what was the good of trying to found a musical career - or any other career, come to that - on something less? Better accept the true position rather than wander on in a fool's paradise.

  Even so, she did ask herself if it were remotely possible that Warrender could be mistaken. Or could it be that, just as with Anthea in her early days, he thought for some reason that a harsh judgment might be healthy at this early stage?

  She toyed with these two possibilities for a few moments. But only a few. Such a theory would not stand up to any sensible examination. Warrender had no conceivable reason to tell her anything but what he judged to be the truth. And, as for the possibility of his being mistaken in his judgment, where was she likely to find a more informed or reliable verdict than his?

  Strangely enough, she even thought as she tossed uneasily on the bed that deep down inside her his measured words rang a sort of bell. She loved singing, she was perfectionist enough to want to develop her gifts to the highest point. But hers was not one of those glorious, memorable organs that made musical history. Warrender was right there.

  Given luck - or, to use Elliot Cheam's horrid ex­pression, the right boost-She winced away from that wording. Innocent though it might
be as applied to most people, he had applied it to her in the sense that she had been trying to cadge a lift on the road to success from his unsuspecting uncle.

  Joanna had stopped crying by now, only an oc­casional after-sob shaking her from time to time. And at last she began to think of the few words of consolation Oscar Warrender had felt able to give her. She had considerable dramatic talent, in his opinions

  Well, it was true that the drama behind what she was singing had always fascinated her. It was the portrayal of a character like Fiora which had brought out all the best in her work. But, for all practical pur­poses, how did that help her?

  Not at all, so far as Elliot Cheam was concerned. His contemptuous dismissal of Warrender's attempt to interest him rankled more than anything else in the whole evening. For Elliot, alas, was the real theatrical expert in the party,

  Oscar Warrender might say she had theatrical talent, as Elliot might say of someone that the voice was noteworthy. In each case it would be an informed opinion from someone who had links with the other man's world. But it would not be the final expert judg­ment on which one might build hopes of a career.

  She was not prepared to leave it at that, of course. She was determined to go on with her studies for the moment. Let her see what the performance of 'The Love of Three Kings' might do for her. But it was useless to pretend that her drive and hopeful deter­mination had not received a fearful check.

  At no point did she blame Oscar Warrender as over-ruthless. She had asked for his informed opinion -probably the best informed opinion in the operatic world, A man of integrity - and no one had ever ques­tioned Warrender's integrity, whatever else they might say of him - could do no less than tell her the truth as he saw it. It was not his fault that the verdict had been given at just about the worst moment in time for poor Joanna.

  She fell asleep at last, slept dreamlessly and woke to a wonderful morning and a feeling of deepest depression. It was a moment before she realized why her heart was so heavy. Then all the events of the previous evening rushed back upon her, and she wanted nothing so much as to put her head under the bedclothes and refuse to face the day.

  Rejecting this cowardly impulse, however, she got up, bathed and dressed and then went downstairs through the still almost silent house. A few sounds were coming from the kitchen regions, but no one else seemed awake in the rest of the house. So she went out on to the terrace and then down the few steps to a charming walled garden, where tall yew hedges gave an air of privacy to the several pathways.

  The faint mist of a warm October morning had already almost lifted, and the scent of late roses was incredibly sweet. It was also a trifle melancholy to anyone in Joanna's present mood, for it seemed to speak irresistibly of the passing of the joys of high summer.

  'Oh, stop being so fanciful and self-pitying!' she told herself, actually speaking aloud. Then she turned a corner and came upon Elliot Cheam.

  He was standing by an ornamental stone wall, making overtures to a superior-looking black Persian cat who was totally ignoring him.

  'Hello—' he turned to look at Joanna - 'were you addressing me?'

  'No.' She hoped he had not heard her exact words. 'I was - talking to myself, I'm afraid.'

  'Well, I was talking to this unresponsive cat, which is only one degree better, I suppose. His complete in­difference is very chastening. - Oh!' he added sharply as the cat, unerringly sensing a decrease in interest, put out a paw and dabbed him lightly on the cheek.

  Joanna laughed outright and said impulsively, 'It must be a she. She didn't like being ignored.’

  'You think so?' He laughed too and then looked slightly surprised to find that he had done so. "Is that the way it works?' And he turned back to stroke the cat, who immediately rubbed its head against his hand with an entirely spurious air of slavish affection.

  'It works with some women and most cats,' Joanna assured him. And then - she simply could not imagine why - she added, 'It would work with Sara Fernie, I expect.'

  'What makes you say that, I wonder?' He aban­doned the cat - who instantly assumed an air of indifference once more - and fell into step beside Joanna.

  'I don't really know,' she exclaimed. 'And I was being rather catty even to say it, I suppose. She means a lot to you, doesn't she?'

  'Our careers have been very closely linked for some time,' he agreed, 'And most of that time I've thought myself in love with her,' he added with startling can­dour.

  'But don't you know whether you're in love with her or not?'

  'No,' he said lightly. 'Does one ever?'

  'Well, I should have thought one did,' replied Joanna, in the tone she used when her mother was being silly. 'But that's not an expert opinion. I've never been in love.'

  'Haven't you?' He glanced at her with amused interest. 'Just devoted to your career, to the exclusion of all else, I take it?'

  'Not to the exclusion of all else,' she replied steadily. 'And if you're preparing to be unpleasant again about my being down here at Wilmore Manor when I had told you I had no Intention of coming—'

  'When you had gone to absurd lengths to assure me you wouldn't dream of coming,' he- corrected smoothly.

  'I did not go to any absurd lengths!' She kept her temper firmly in check. 'When I was speaking to you I told the exact truth, as it was at that moments I had no intention of coming here this week-end. For one thing, I hadn't been invited, and—'

  'A mere formality, surely, when you'd been so busy charming my uncle?''

  'Am I telling this story, or are you?' she asked, so crisply that he glanced at her in surprise.- 'And why, incidentally, were you at such pains to tell me you couldn't come down here, when all the time you meant to come sneaking down to see if I were here?' :

  'I did nothing of the sort!' He was suddenly furious. 'How dare you suggest—?'

  'It's horrid when people make stupid and un­founded accusations, isn't it?' she said sweetly, and there was a long silence.

  'You're saying—' he spoke slowly and reluctantly at last - 'that my accusations are stupid and un­founded?'

  'I'm saying just that,' she agreed, but there was no bitterness in her tone now and, after a moment, she took him by the arm, which seemed to surprise him a good deal. 'Elliot - you said at a kinder moment that I might call you Elliot, although I noticed last night that you studiously referred to me as Miss Ransome—'

  'I'm sorry about that. It was silly,' he said unex­pectedly.

  'Well, it was rather,' she agreed goodhumouredly, 'but we'll forget that. What's more important is - why did you decide to dislike me, from the moment I first entered your uncle's house?'

  'I didn't!' he protested defensively. 'You did, you know. You made up your mind that I was out to exploit your uncle in some shameful and idiotic way, and ever since then you've been busy fitting everything else into your theory. I don't happen to mind much what you think—'

  'Don't you?' he said unexpectedly, and the single question almost stopped her breath for a moment, be­cause something deep down in her instantly registered the conviction that her assertion was a lie.

  'Of course I don't,' she declared lightly. 'Why should I? Except that no one likes to be misjudged all the time. I genuinely like and admire your uncle; I was touched that he took a personal interest in me, even though that interest was founded on his regard for someone else long ago; and when he phoned - entirely on his own initiative, I might say -I couldn't really see Why I shouldn't accept. Can you?'

  'You might at least have mentioned it to me, surely? After jumping down my throat at the very suggestion that you might be thinking of going, I mean.'

  'I did try to tell you. I made an attempt that time you found me at the box office and were so kind as to offer me t-tickets for your show.' Her voice shook slightly as she remembered what a happy moment that had been. 'But before I could do so you were called away and—'

  'Called away?' He sounded sceptical again.

  'It was a transatlantic telephone call, and I co
uldn't very well insist on detaining you.'

  'Oh—' she saw he recalled the occasion exactly. 'But surely—' he gave the impression of being reluctantly driven from one line of defence to another - 'surely there were other times when you could have told me -asked me—' he stopped.

  'You mean you really feel that I was wrong to accept your uncle's invitation without asking your permission first?'

  'No, of course not,’ He looked quite outraged at that suggestion.

  'What, then?' she asked, in her most reasonable tone.

  'Oh, I don't know,' He frowned and then laughed angrily^ 'You're trying to make me feel a fool, aren't you?'

  'No,' she said. And then, when they had walked on a few paces, she added, 'But if you are feeling a bit of a fool, who am I to argue with you about it?'

  He laughed reluctantly at that and exclaimed, 'All right, you win. What do you want me to do? Apologize abjectly?'

  'No, of course not.' It was she who was outraged that time. 'What a horrible idea!'

  'Think so?'- He gave her an amused, speculative glance. 'I thought that was what most women liked, once they'd won their point.'

  'Not most women,' she assured him firmly,; 'Perhaps the Sara Fernies of this world might,'

  'You have got a down on Sara, haven't you?' he said amusedly,-

  'No, I haven't. She's no business of mine. But I was shocked at some of the things she said at that dress rehearsal.'

  'Were you? What, for instance?' He looked genu­inely curious.

  'Never mind now. But, if you're really keen on her, you'd better show her a touch of healthy indifference from time to time. Like the cat on the wall, you know.'

  'She's coming over here this afternoon,' he said irrel­evantly. 'At least, I expect she is.'

  'Is she?' Joanna looked surprised. 'Did she also come down from London last night, then?'

  'No, no. She had to be there for the evening per­formance, of course. But we - disagreed about some­thing. Well, she wanted me to hang about last night and then drive her down here this morning. Whereas—'