Trio

by Sue Gee

  St Albans, Northampton, Leicester. You bypassed them all on the A1, the M1, lorries thundering up the slow lane, the sky clearing to a pale winter blue. Service stations, sheep: with the sight of the first sheep his spirits began to rise. He thought of hills, and hill farms, of Mike and Evie’s old farm, which Charlie and Nina had loved, feeding the lambs when they were little, hurling a ball for the sheepdog: nought to sixty in ten seconds.

  He passed plough land and bare trees, kestrels hovering above the verges, Radio 3 his companion. Essential Classics. Composer of the Week. Haydn at Esterhazy – he practically knew it by heart, but it didn’t matter, you could never have enough Haydn. And he raised his hand now and then, conducting.

  It was all as he’d imagined it, except for the overtaking. He’d always been a fast, confident driver, but it was a long time since he’d gone the distance and now – you couldn’t stay stuck behind lorries for ever, but he found he was nervous as he pulled out and overtook one, then, two, then three, each longer than the last. After the third, he pulled back again, got flashed for doing it too quickly, and found he was shaking. Couldn’t have that. He raised a hand in apology, slowed down, took a few deep breaths.

  What to do? You couldn’t hog the middle lane, and he didn’t feel up to the fast, though in the old days he’d never have left it. Well, he was in a different kind of old days now: his own. Time for a coffee. And he pulled off at a slip road, and drove until he found a lay-by overlooking farmland. More sheep, grazing timelessly.

  ‘Hello.’ He unscrewed the flask and sat watching them, wondering when they’d been taken into lambing sheds, which was what happened now, though in the old days – here they were again – they’d often be lambing out on frozen hillsides all through the winter.

  The coffee restored him: should have stopped miles back. Only now he needed a pee, of course. He eased open a field-gate, stood behind a hedge just as another couple of cars pulled up.

  Right, off we go again.

  When he saw the Angel of the North silhouetted against the cloudy sky he made a decision. He’d stop off at Gateshead, and visit the Sage. The newest and most exciting concert hall in the north of England: he couldn’t come all this way and not have a look at it. The older you got, the more you should try to keep up: do stuff, do new stuff, have things to talk about. This feeling, which Becky had shared – always something new on the go in the book group; always a new exhibition; all that volunteering – had been so utterly eclipsed by her death that he was astonished now to find himself thinking like this. A good sign.

  And he turned off at the roundabout and followed the signs. It was early afternoon: he could look round, have tea, press on to Morpeth in time for supper.

  Above him, the Angel spread its mighty wings. That felt like a good sign, too.

  ‘Oh, Becky.’

  He still said her name aloud, still wanted her there to share it all. She’d have loved this trip.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ he said, before he could stop himself, and then he made himself concentrate on the route. Heavy traffic now, accompanied by Bach Partitas, just what he needed. And if he didn’t want to overtake, he wouldn’t. Plenty of time.

  He parked in the Sage car park and walked slowly up to the entrance. It was indeed an extraordinary place, those glassy panels reflecting the slowly-moving clouds, everything about its drama and size and modernity proclaiming: Music matters! Look what we’ve done! And its position, beside the great Tyne Bridge, riverboats passing, gulls wheeling, lights coming on in the buildings across the river – fabulous.

  ‘I’m a Northumbrian,’ he thought, as Evie had always said she was, and felt London, which had come to mean so much to him, just slip away. And yes, it was doing him good, to do something new at last, for the first time since Becky had gone.

  A vast Christmas tree stood in the foyer. Inside, it was like being on board a liner: great white curving balconies, views of the river everywhere you looked. He strolled about, one of dozens of visitors, found the two concert halls, heard someone blasting away on a trumpet. There were lots of children skidding about on the polished boards – it was the holidays, of course, and reading the notice boards he saw there was a lot going on for them, the place an education trust as well.

  He should bring the grandchildren here. He stood looking at flyers for workshops and jam sessions, reading the concert programme. The Newcastle-upon-Tyne Bach Choir. Blues, brass, Indian classical. Young Musicians Live, lunchtime recitals; the Endellion Quartet; piano in the afternoon – it was endless, it was terrific. But no trio, he noticed, not in this season, and he thought how wonderful it would have been, for the Hepplewick Trio to have played somewhere like this, somewhere really on the map, and packed to the gills. It was only George who had ever played at somewhere significant, and that was before the war.

  Had he done enough, he wondered now, had Charlie and Nina done enough, to tell Robyn and the boys about the trio their great-grandmother had played in for so long? About how good it had been to grow up with the sound of his mother practising, the Trio rehearsing, students coming for lessons. The music talk at mealtimes, all those concerts. Of course, it had been Evie who had really followed in their mother’s footsteps. He’d loved it all, but been no good, not really, not put in the hours. But he’d listened, he’d listened all his life – like his father, who’d had not a shred of musical education until he and his mother met, and fell in love.

  ‘Then music began to mean everything.’

  He heard himself sigh. Time for tea. He made his way to a café, settled down with a pastry and a pot for one. Fortified, he got out his phone and texted Nina.

  Having tea at the Sage, terrific place. We must bring the boys.

  Would they want to come? Would they want to hear, if he went on about the Hepplewick Trio, and how good they’d been? Their uncle had had a voice to die for, sung the solo of ‘Once in Royal’ at St Paul’s one Christmas, still sang in a choir, his one relaxation from hospital and family life. Ben and Ollie had both started off on piano and violin, but – like him, let’s face it – they didn’t practise as they should.

  Well. He’d give it a go. Bring them up in the Easter holidays, perhaps, take them to a concert, take them to the Hall. And he saw them, London children used to tower blocks and street after street of terraced houses, looking through the open gates of the Hall, as he would do tomorrow: at the drive, the tree, the terrace; at the lovely old house with the pele tower, overlooking lawn, tennis court, stable yard—

  ‘You mean you used to live here?’

  What about Robyn? Could he bring her? His little girl, his darling.

  ‘Grandpa!’ Her arms round his neck.

  ‘Granny!’ Snuggled up on her lap.

  Did he dream it, or was she, even at seven, beginning to withdraw? Was Jo’s crispness, and briskness, and general – oh, what would you call it? – he was feeling tired now – making her less demonstrative? Less loving?

  God knows what they’d make of that doll.

  Enough. Better get going. He made his way out through the throng.

  5

  By the time he got to Morpeth it was dark; by the time he’d found the B&B he was shattered. No two ways about it. He parked the car behind the house, feeling the chill of winter air from the river, and carried his overnight bag up the path. A cheering light shone on to it; a Christmas tree smothered in stuff stood twinkling away in the hall.

  ‘I’ve driven up from London,’ he told the landlady. ‘You couldn’t by any chance do supper.’ He gave her his most winning smile.

  She couldn’t, she was ever so sorry. But a couple of roads away was a nice little place. She gave him the card, and carried his bag up the stairs. A marmalade cat was sitting on the landing.

  ‘That’s Orlando.’

  ‘I thought it would be. Hello, puss.’

  His room was warm, that was the m
ain thing. Too many beaded cushions on the bed – what was he supposed to do with that lot? Otherwise: fine. He threw the cushions on top of the wardrobe, had a pee and a wash and brush-up. Not quite so bad once he was done. He splashed on a bit of cologne and felt better.

  Okay, supper. Supper, shower and bed. He could sleep for England. And he went downstairs, took directions again, and walked out into the street.

  Everything felt quiet and solid, Christmas trees in every window. Perishingly cold. He could hear the river lapping beneath the old stone bridge. But it did him good to stretch his legs, and the restaurant was festive and welcoming.

  ‘A table for two, sir?’

  That was how it had been for ever.

  ‘Can you squeeze me in?’

  He was squeezed into a table for two in a corner. Everything was candlelit and jolly, other tables laughing away. A few paper hats.

  Oh, darling—

  He stopped himself. None of that. He scanned the wine list, ordered a half-bottle of Chateauneuf and fell upon the bread basket. Famished, he was famished. He’d driven three hundred miles on a couple of ham sandwiches and a Danish; time to tuck in. And he ordered warm goat’s cheese, and a rack of lamb, raised his glass and let this very good wine hit the spot.

  God, that was better. He felt for his book, just as a text went ting in his pocket.

  Hi Dad, thinking of you. Glad the Sage was good. Where are you now? xx

  Having supper in Morpeth, he texted back. Everything going fine. xx

  He got out Orwell’s essays, and settled down. If you had to be on your own there were worse things than reading a good book over a good meal, and Orwell had sustained him since his teens. He turned the pages, found ‘Death of an Elephant’. You could never read that too many times. And he began to read, deciding on sticky toffee pudding to polish off the meal. If you couldn’t have sticky toffee pudding in Northumberland, where could you?

  He woke next morning to the bluest of blue skies. Everything looked fresh and good, and now, as he dressed, he could see the river from his window, rushing along and glinting. The Wansbeck. He remembered leaning over the bridge in childhood visits, racing sticks with Evie. He’d love to see it again. No time to drive out and visit the site of the long-gone mine, and what would be the point? But he’d have a bit of a walk in the sun after breakfast.

  Breakfast was the usual B&B extravaganza, and if he hadn’t eaten so well last night he’d have had the works. As it was, he had coffee and scrambled eggs and a small mountain of wholemeal toast, nodding to the other guests, then reading the paper.

  ‘Terrific. Thank you so much.’

  He left a large tip, and went up to pack. Left a fiver on the chest of drawers, too, imagining some poor little Polish thing, her eyes lighting up; feeling expansive and – yes – happy. Just the thought of the drive, the sight of the hills, and then, at last, the village, and the Hall.

  He looked at his watch. Half an hour’s look-about, and he’d be on his way. And after the Hall, on the way to Evie’s, he’d drive over to Kirkhoughton, see the school. That would be a fine thing. Have a pub lunch, then off to Otterburn. No need to rush, and he’d be there by teatime.

  ‘You made it! Come in, come in.’

  Tea by the fire, and then all the talk could begin.

  Downstairs, he paid the bill, stroked the cat, swung out with his bag to the car. It might be sunny, but God, it was cold. He wound his scarf twice round his neck, pulled on his gloves. Okay: just a quick look.

  He walked along good clean streets. As he came into Castle Street, and looked around, he saw the court house, something else he remembered from childhood: a mock medieval castle, complete with battlements, a mighty thing. He turned towards it, and walked up the broad tarmac path, remembering Evie skipping along, holding their father’s hand, and he wanting to wear chainmail, and march about.

  ‘It’s not as old as it looks,’ he heard their father tell them. ‘It was built in the early nineteenth century – an architect called John Dobson, quite famous. This was a court house and also a jail.’ Everywhere they went, he told them stuff.

  ‘Has it got dungeons?’

  ‘No. But there were plenty of prisoners, plenty of cells. Pretty imposing, isn’t it?’

  It was. He’d thought about clambering about on that roof, whizzing arrows into the air.

  A lot of cars were parked outside it now. Well: it was a popular tourist destination – there would be. But as he drew nearer, he realised: No, not visitors. Residents. The whole thing had been made into flats. He stopped on the path, rather taken aback, and then, as a young man came hurrying out of the building, late for work by the look of things, he recalled something he hadn’t thought about for years.

  This was where George Liddell had had to face a tribunal, in the early months of the war. This, as the Magistrates Court, was where they had heard the appeals from conscientious objectors.

  How could he not have thought of that, when he was planning this trip? Well – losing Becky had wiped a lot of things from his mind, that was all there was to it. He thought about the past all the time, but this – he just hadn’t made the connection.

  He was making it now. And pacing up and down in the cold, in front of the great arched entrance, he tried to imagine the scene.

  ‘Mr Liddell? Come and sit down.’

  George walked across the bare floorboards towards the desk. Three men were sitting there, their backs to the light. On this spring morning the huge panelled room was sunlit, and beyond the leaded windows trees were in full fresh leaf. A beautiful day, but the men at the desk looked sombre. He pulled out a chair, and sat before them.

  The man in the middle cleared his throat.

  ‘Mr Liddell, we must introduce ourselves. My name is Michael Ingham, and as a barrister I am chairing this Tribunal. To my left, Dr Hetherington, who practises in this town. To my right, Mr Ferries, town councillor.’

  There was a general inclination of heads. Ferries, thought George, looking at a mean narrow face: he’s the one to watch.

  ‘Now, then,’ said Ingham. ‘Your full name?’

  ‘George Edward Liddell, sir.’

  ‘And your date of birth?’

  He gave it, with his address. Tile House, Coquet Bridge. His mother, as he left this morning, had looked ashen. His father, too old for call-up, had stopped speaking to him.

  ‘And your occupation.’

  ‘Musician, sir.’

  Ingham was writing, though he had all this information before him already.

  ‘Instrument?’ He pronounced the word as if it were something deeply distasteful. George had a sudden flash of how he would be in court, cross-examining.

  ‘The violin.’

  ‘And who do you play with? Where do you play?’

  He began to explain, knowing at once how it sounded. He and two young women, far from the swim of manly life. Country house concerts, churches, church halls. Perhaps church halls were good. Church halls and schools.

  ‘And I teach quite a lot,’ he said. ‘I’d like to teach more.’

  ‘And you wish—’ Ingham gazed at him. ‘You wish to be exempted from military service.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  George took a deep breath. ‘I’m a pacifist.’ It was true, though until war was declared he had not known how deeply pacifism ran in every cell of his body. He had never fought anything, never wanted to. If he had anything to give the world at all, it was not through combat. He cleared his own throat, and it sounded horribly loud.

  ‘I love my country,’ he said, and that was true, too. ‘But I’ve joined the Peace Pledge Union. And I believe I can best serve England by doing what I do best – uplifting people’s lives through the transforming power of music.’ Did that sound grandiose? It was how he felt. ‘Especially,’ – he hesitated. �
�‘Especially in these dark times. People will need music more than ever now.’

  ‘I see.’ Once more, Ingham made it sound as if he’d heard something unpleasant, outlandish, even. ‘You’re not married,’ he said suddenly. Did George imagine it, or was this said with particular, meaningful emphasis? ‘You don’t have a young wife you’re anxious not to leave.’

  ‘No, sir.’ He struggled, and failed, to quell a rising blush.

  Ingham gazed at him, and the blush deepened. ‘I thought that was probably the case,’ he murmured, and George thought: it’s not Ferries, it’s this man. This man is someone to fear. And he was afraid now, and his knees began to tremble.

  ‘If I may—’ Hetherington was looking through papers.

  ‘Of course.’ Ingham gestured towards him.

  ‘You have people who have testified on your behalf?’

  Another deep breath. He clenched his knees together. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘My tutor at the Royal College of Music. In London. I studied there between 1926 and ’29. I believe my violin tutor has been kind enough to speak well of me.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Hetherington had his hands clasped before him, as if in prayer, and again it sounded as though some music tutor could barely be given the time of day, even if he did teach at the Royal College.

  ‘Mr Harold Straughan,’ said George. ‘The head of the boys’ school at Kirkhoughton. Kirkhoughton Boys,’ he added, and began to feel steadier. Just a bit.

  Since the outbreak of war, Straughan had presided over ­assemblies as if he were Winston Churchill: that was what Steven had told him, delivering each fresh piece of news in a way which made every boy in the hall thrill with patriotism. And yet—

  ‘Go on,’ Steven had urged him. ‘You know what effect that concert had. Ask him – he can only say no.’