Suddenly she knew that this was a trick of his when he wanted to shake someone’s nerve. And, to her stupefaction, she found herself saying,
“Do you really want to know what I have to say? Because, if so, it would be more polite to look at me.”
“I am not a polite man,” he returned coolly. But he sat back then and regarded her, with eyes so cold that they were like shadows on an ice-field, she thought. They even had that same strange tinge of blue in them.
“I — I didn’t mean to be rude to you” — Anthea swallowed nervously — “but you scared me and — ”
“For someone scared you’re doing very well,” he interrupted drily. “This is the first time I’ve been taken to task about my method of approach. But go on.”
“I — I just want to say that nearly everything you’re telling me is new to me. I can’t take it all in at once. It’s useless if I don’t understand from the beginning. If you’d be just a little more patient – ”
“Shall we try again?” he said quietly, and she was not at all sure if the query contained reassurance or menace.
They tried again, and by some miracle of good fortune she contrived to do exactly what he wanted. She got no praise for it. He merely said, “Why couldn’t you have done that before?” But at least that brought her safely to the end of her lesson.
Then, just as she was putting on her things, he enquired abruptly,
“Have you ever been to an opera?”
“Oh, yes. Three times,” she told him. “But only when a touring company came to the nearest big town, of course.”
“What did you hear?” he enquired curiously.
“Tannhauser, Fledermaus and Wozzeck.”
He laughed at that. He laughed so much that she could hardly believe her ears. And she thought she had never seen anything so handsome as that vivid, almost dangerously intelligent face when the eyes were sparkling and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in that almost devilish expression.
She had to smile, puzzled though she was. And finally she asked, “Is that so very funny?”
“Indescribably so,” he assured her, suddenly in excellent humour. “It’s the funniest mixture I’ve ever heard, and a wonderful comment on the material provided for the operatic beginner. What did you make of Wozzeck?”
“Very little,” she said frankly.
“So I should imagine. Then you’ve never heard a Verdi Opera on a stage?”
She shook her head.
“How wonderful,” he said softly, almost to himself, and she could hardly credit the depth of feeling which suddenly warmed that usually cold, incisive voice. “How wonderful to be hearing a Verdi opera for the very first time.” Then he turned to her, and said in something more like his usual tone, “You had better come with me tonight. They’re doing Otello at Covent Garden.”
“Come with you? To the opera, do you mean?” She could hardly believe her ears — this time for the words rather than the tone.
“Yes, of course. Do you think you can get there on your own, or shall I fetch you?”
“Oh, no! I expect I can manage all right.” She was trembling with excitement. “In fact, of course I can,” she added hastily, not wanting to seem in any way helpless or unsophisticated.
“Then meet me in the foyer at ten past seven.”
“Are you conducting?” she asked eagerly.
“No, of course not,” he returned impatiently. “What do you suppose I should be doing in the foyer at ten past seven if I were conducting? Laurent is conducting. He’s not as good as I am, but he’s good.” He stated that as a fact, without conceit or false modesty. “Ten past seven. And don’t be late.”
“Oh, I won’t be!” Her eyes were sparkling and her colour high. “What do I wear?”
“Wear? Who cares what you wear?” he demanded comtemptuously.
“No — I mean is it evening dress? Because I haven’t got a real one, and I thought perhaps — ”
“Wear what you like,” he told her indifferently. “No one is going to look at you.”
And, on this deflating piece of information, he dismissed her from his presence.
CHAPTER III
Downstairs once more and still in a daze, Anthea let the hall porter summon a taxi for her. Not that she expected to indulge in many extravagances of this sort, now that she was entering on her student days. But she still had her luggage with her, as she had come straight to Killigrew Mansions from the train. And, in any case, she had no idea where her boarding-house might be, except that it was in Kensington.
As she drove along, she caught fascinating glimpses of places that seemed vaguely familiar from photographs she had seen in newspapers from time to time. But more than half her mind was still concerned with the scene which had just taken place.
Again there had been that extraordinary mixture of near-terror and almost breathtaking stimulation, and even now she felt both shocked and pleased to realise that she had actually stood up to the intimidating Oscar Warrender and answered him back.
She was not at all sure that he had thought any the less of her for that either. At least it had not prevented him from giving the incredible invitation to accompany him to Covent Garden that evening.
Quite a short drive brought her to the tall, rather shabby terrace house which was to be her home in future. And here she was welcomed very cordially by Mrs. McManus, the owner of the place. Mrs. McManus was a large, slightly flamboyant lady in her late sixties, with a fine speaking voice, admirable teeth and hair of somewhat bogus blackness.
Anthea guessed that she had once been a singer of sorts herself. And indeed, even as she conducted Anthea upstairs to her room on the first floor, she informed her that this was the case, and explained that her special partiality for boarding music students arose from her earlier experience in the operatic world.
“I never got further than a Rhinemaiden at Covent Garden,” she confided to Anthea, “but on tour I had a big repertoire. Those were the days! Six weeks we’d do in Manchester and Liverpool, and four in Glasgow and Birmingham. And then there were dozens of places where we’d have a one-week stand. And crowded houses all the way. All they want now is pop nonsense or the goggle-box. Faugh!”
Anthea had never before met anyone who actually said, “Faugh!” And was — like most of us — quite intrigued to find how it was really pronounced by those who use it. But she expressed genuine interest in Mrs. McManus’s past career, which evoked the kind assurance,
“I’ll look after you, dear. Miss Mountjoy said you’re from the Provinces and might need a bit of guidance, but you’ll soon get to know the ropes. There are eight other music students in the house. Two strings, two wind and four vocals. So you’ll feel quite at home.”
Anthea said she was sure she would, and added — with sincerity — that she very much liked her room.
“Well, it’s homely, and the food’s good, though I say it myself,” Mrs. McManus declared. “Goodness knows. I’ve been in too many theatrical lodgings in my life not to know what makes for comfort. To come home from a hard evening’s work and try to sleep on a mattress that feels like potatoes — that’s my ideal of hell,” she added cheerfully.
Then, as Anthea looked round and smiled contentedly, she said, “Well, you get yourself unpacked and settled in, dear, and come downstairs when you hear the gong go. It’ll be at five-thirty today. It’s high tea instead of dinner because four of them are going to the opera tonight. It’s Otello.”
“I know. I’m going too,” explained Anthea, feeling delightfully in the swim of things already.
“Going to Covent Garden?” Mrs. McManus looked surprised. “But have you got a ticket? It’s not much good going up on chance this evening, even for standing room. Otello’s a popular opera these days, though once it was considered rather a connoisseur’s piece,” she added knowledgeably.
“Yes, I’ve got a ticket,” Anthea said rather shyly. “At least, a — a friend is taking me.”
Suddenly it seeme
d preposterous and boastful to say that Oscar Warrender was taking her.
“Well, you’re a lucky girl,” said Mrs. McManus heartily. “There was an all-night queue for the booking. But that was when they thought Warrender was conducting. Now he’s not taking over until later in the season. But the other man’s good too.”
“So I’ve been told,” murmured Anthea rather demurely.
“Not a bad start for your first night in London, I must say! To be taken to Otello at Covent Garden.”
“That’s what I thought,” agreed Anthea happily. “There’s just one snag. I — I think he’s got quite good seats. Does it matter that I haven’t a proper evening dress?”
“Not unless you’re going to be in a box, and even then you can make do, except on a first night,” Mrs. McManus informed her with authority. “Well, I’ll leave you now to settle in.” And with a brisk but friendly nod to Anthea, she went off downstairs.
Left alone, Anthea unpacked rapidly, and shook out the folds from her one party dress with particular care. She inspected it anxiously and tried to decide how it would measure up to other creations in the stalls or boxes of Covent Garden.
It was simply cut and a very pretty shade of apricot, which imparted a warm glow to her really beautiful skin. It was true that no one would mistake it for a Paris model. On the other hand, when she had put it on and surveyed herself in the mirror of her small wardrobe, she decided that it was somehow “her” dress, and that at least she would not disgrace her distinguished escort on this wonderful evening.
During the short time she had left, she wrote a hasty note to her mother, declaring — with some over-simplification of the case — that everything seemed to be working out wonderfully. And then, when a loud gong boomed, on the stroke of five-thirty, she went downstairs feeling both shy and excited.
As she entered the slightly shabby dining-room, it seemed to her that the place was full of people, all talking at once. And, unused as she was to this kind of thing, she hung back, a little undecided.
Mrs. McManus, however, spied her immediately and, bringing her forward, rather in the manner of a capable nanny who had no intention of having her charge overlooked at the party, she made rapid and comprehensive introductions.
Anthea then discovered that the “two strings” were violin students, answering to the names of Bob and Toots (Toots being a charming red-haired girl with a slight but attractive cast in her left eye). The “two wind” were both young men, one studying to be a flautist and the other a horn-player. They talked almost incessantly to each other, and flung only an occasional word into the general conversation.
The “four vocals” consisted of an Irish tenor, unoriginally addressed as Paddy by everyone, a graceful, rather aloof girl called Violet Albany, who sounded like a mezzo from her speaking voice, a gay little brunette, introduced as Ella Crann, and an equally gay blonde who said immediately to Anthea,
“Come and sit beside me and tell me all about yourself. My name’s Vicki Donnington, and I’m not really regarded as a professional student. I just like singing. It sounds dreadfully unambitious, I know, with everyone else scrambling to get to the top of the operatic tree. But I guess that’s just the way I’m made.”
Anthea smiled at her and said, “I think I rather like the way you’re made.”
The other girl laughed at that and observed shrewdly, “Well, at least it saves me from agonies of professional jealousy. Ma McManus says you’re going to the Garden tonight, but in the front of the house. We’re all in the amphitheatre, of course. How come you got a seat in the front, you lucky thing?”
“I’m — being taken,” Anthea admitted.
“Then she’s got a rich boy-friend,” Vicki informed the rest of them with satisfaction. “How useful! Or someone who can pull a string — which might be even more useful, if it’s the right kind of string. What’s his name?”
Anthea took a deep breath and then, realising that prevarication would only land her in deeper waters, she elected for the simple truth and said,
“He’s not a boy-friend at all I — I just happen to be a pupil of Oscar Warrender, and he’s taking me.”
On the instant all conversation ceased and everyone stared at her incredulously. Then the horn-player said,
“You’re going to the opera with Oscar Warrender? What on earth does it feel like?”
“Champagne and bitter aloes,” replied Anthea who, until that moment, had had no idea that she possessed something of a gift for repartee.
The others shrieked in chorus, and Vicki Donnington actually patted her on the back and exclaimed,
“Oh, we’re going to like you. What can we contribute to the occasion? Can I lend you anything? An evening bag or a stole — I’ve got a lovely golden one — or even your fare? I mean — we must make it a co-operative effort and see that you do us all proud. Oscar Warrender! Do you mind if I touch you?” And she gave Anthea a small, mischievous pinch.
Anthea laughed.
“It’s terribly nice of you all to be so interested, and helpful. Of course I’m wildly excited. You see, it’s the first time I’ve ever been to Covent Garden, for one thing – ”
“The first time,” echoed Vicki, “and she’s going with Oscar Warrender. Oh, do borrow my stole! I’d love to think it had sat beside the great man, even if I hadn’t. And it would go beautifully with your pretty dress, as a matter of fact.”
Before Anthea could reply to that, however, Violet Albany asked curiously, “Do you know him well?”
“Yes. Tell us what he’s really like,” begged the gay little brunette. “We all know he’s madly attractive, of course. One can see that much, even from the amphi. But they say he’s a devil too. Is he?”
Anthea opened her lips to say just exactly what she thought of Oscar Warrender and the arrogant way he walked through life. But then something instinctive warned her that this was the moment when she must start, exercising the discretion she would have to maintain rigidly during the coming months.
It was natural for them to want to hear personal details about one of the celebrities of their particular world. But, while maintaining a friendly and open manner, she would have to guard against being a source of casual gossip.
So with an air of good-humoured candour, Anthea contented herself with saying,
“I don’t really know him personally. The — the friend who is paying for my training decided that he was the man to have the overall direction of it, and so I was sent along to be auditioned by him. He accepted me, I’m glad to say. But as for knowing him — I’ve met him only twice. Well, perhaps three times,” she amended, suddenly remembering that unintentional encounter in the rain outside Cromerdale Town Hall.
“I say, you do have the right sort of friends, don’t you?” observed Vicki admiringly. “I wish I knew someone who thought it a good idea to send me to Oscar Warrender.”
“It wouldn’t be any good if you had,” declared the horn-player unkindly. “You’d be rejected out of hand. Warrender doesn’t take merely talented people who want to sing. I didn’t know he took anyone, to tell the truth. You must be exceptionally good.” And he regarded Anthea with interest.
“Are you exceptionally good?” enquired Vicki frankly.
“I don’t know. He doesn’t give me that impression,” Anthea admitted with a smile. “But I suppose these are early days for him to form a definite opinion.”
“They say,” said Violet Albany sombrely, “that he can hear a voice in the raw and tell exactly what it ought to sound like when it’s been properly trained and developed. And they also say that, once he gets a singer under his hand, he knows just what he’s going to do with that artist for the next five years.”
“Do they?” Anthea felt slightly uncomfortable at the idea of anyone — particularly Oscar Warrender — knowing so much about her as that.
But then someone said it was time they were going, and immediately there was a great scramble to get ready.
“Are you going grandl
y in a taxi?” Vicki wanted to know. “Or would you prefer to come with us on the Tube?”
“Oh, I’ll come with you, please,” Anthea assured her.
“And wear my stole?” pleaded Vicki.
“If you really are so kind, and mean — ”
“It’s yours. Say no more,” Vicki ordered her, and she raced away upstairs, to return in a matter of minutes, with a very lovely golden tissue stole draped over her arm.
“It’s almost too beautiful,” protested Anthea.
But Vicki would hear no argument. And certainly when it was put round Anthea it did wonderful things to the simple apricot-coloured dress, and made her feel that she could hold her own even in the company of Oscar Warrender.
On the way up to town, she alternated between rapturous excitement and nervous apprehension. To be going to Covent Garden at all was an event in the life of an inconspicuous Cromerdale student. But to be going in these special circumstances was to step out of obscurity into the highlight of drama.
For the moment it was wonderful to be just one in a company of gay contemporaries who shared the same interests as herself. It was — she admitted it frankly — very gratifying to be envied and questioned because she had the distinction of knowing Oscar Warrender.
But very soon this easy, lighthearted phase of the evening would be over. She would be leaving the support of her pleasant new friends and be flung upon a social world entirely beyond her experience. There would be no one to smooth an unfamiliar path but the critical and intimidating conductor. And, whatever Oscar Warrender’s gifts might be, he was certainly no path-smoother. Of that Anthea was quite sure.
As they streamed out of Co vent Garden Tube station, along with dozens of other chattering enthusiasts, Vicki caught Anthea by the arm and said,
“Look, that’s the edge of the great fruit and vegetable market. Isn’t it a queer place to have an opera house? But we love it because it’s so individual. When we queue on booking days, in the early morning, we’re almost mown down by lorries, shouldered out of the way by porters, surrounded by oranges and brussels sprouts and tomatoes, and all the luxury things too, like strawberries and asparagus, in season. It’s quite crazy, but it’s wonderful! If they brought me here in my coffin, I think I’d identify the unmistakable smell.”
A Song Begins (Warrender Saga Book 1) Page 5
