Pebbles from a Northern Shore

by Peter D Wilson

THE LEGEND OF THE HURDY-GURDY

  Harold Watkins was addicted to ferreting around in antique shops; real ones, not the fancy purveyors of meretricious tat that you find in any town with a holiday trade. To the intense irritation of his rather formidable wife he would spend hours searching to little if any effect through piles of what she would call rubbish. As often as not, to judge by the dust, they had been undisturbed for decades if not generations, usually for very obvious reasons, but just occasionally he found something worth his attention; once in a blue moon it would serve as a peace offering to Angela, of whom he was actually fonder than he would admit. Perhaps realising this she restrained the urge to nag him into a better occupation for his time, biting her tongue except when he became lost in his enthusiasm and missed an important engagement - important, at least, in her eyes. It was better than chasing other women, although on reflection she thought the idea of his summoning either the energy or the enthusiasm to chase anyone a shade grotesque.

  One day however she lost patience. She had heard of a sale in a town a couple of dozen miles away, and with some difficulty persuaded Harold to drive her there. Directions given at the car park were fortunately precise: "Left at the roundabout, left again after a couple of hundred yards opposite Star Antiques, then first right and it's straight ahead" - to Harold's relief without the usual over-optimistic "You can't miss it." The mention of Star Antiques raised his spirits, until the first sight of it suggested that at best it was in the red dwarf category. Even so, browsing there was obviously preferable to serving as a beast of burden, and with some annoyance at not having the expected porter for her purchases, Angela agreed to meet him there when she had finished her shopping.

  It went badly. She didn't get what she really wanted, and spent more than she intended on poor substitutes, so her temper was decidedly ragged as she strode into the back room of the shop to haul him out. There she found him staring up at a scrimshaw ship model on a high shelf, shuffling around to get different perspectives, in a familiar state of indecision. "For goodness' sake - still dithering? What's the matter with you?"

  "I rather like the look of that ship, but I can't see what condition the other side is in."

  "Of course you can't. You'll have to get it down."

  "I can't reach it - at least, not without most likely damaging something."

  Gritting her teeth, Angela silently counted three; she would have burst before reaching ten. "Then get the shopkeeper to do it for you. He must have a stepladder or something."

  "I haven't seen one. And he's gone off for a few minutes. I'd have asked earlier only he was busy."

  Angela was slightly taller and could probably reach the model, but Harold stopped her. "For goodness sake be careful. Those things can be very valuable."

  "Then what on earth is it doing in the back room of a junk shop?" With some difficulty she took it down, and found it to be badly damaged on the far side. "Well, there you are; what did you expect?"

  She was about to replace it but caught a glimpse of a curious object in the shadow behind and her manner suddenly changed. "Hang on to it a moment, Harold. There's something else here."

  "What?"

  "I can't tell. It looks interesting, but there are other things in the way. Is what's-his-name back yet?"

  Harold took the ship, lodged it in a temporary berth and went in search, returning with an elderly man who looked as though he too might have been stuck on a shelf and forgotten for the past ten years. "Found something, have you?"

  "Maybe. For the moment I just want to see what it is."

  "I'll get the steps." He did so, and after shifting a few other things took down an oddly-shaped casing a couple of feet long, with a fairly elaborate sort of keyboard, an extension with a group of holes and a single remaining peg at one end, and a crank handle sticking out of a wheel housing towards the other.

  Harold wondered what it was. The dealer too was puzzled. "That's funny. I've no idea. In fact I don't remember seeing it before. And the ship hasn't been there all that long."

  Only half a century, Angela nearly suggested. Instead she asked if it might be on a stock list. "I used to have one. But I got behindhand with it and never caught up, so it hardly seemed worth keeping." Particularly with things you can't identify, thought Harold. He had a momentary day-dream of what the book might be like, with entries on the lines of "odd-looking gubbins that might be some sort of mechanical gadget" - not a great deal of help.

  He was startled by Angela's asking "How much?"

  "Eh?"

  "What do you want for it?"

  "Oh - er - say twenty quid."

  "That's a bit steep when you don't know what it is. And didn't even know you had it." She tried turning the handle, which moved freely enough but without apparently doing anything in particular. "And whatever it's supposed to be, it obviously isn't complete. Most of these pegs are missing, and goodness knows what else besides."

  "All right, fifteen?"

  "Ten?"

  "Done."

  "Harold, have you ...?"

  Harold, relieved to avoid a longer haggle, dutifully produced his wallet.

  Outside he had more to say about it. "What on earth did you do that for? After all you've said about collecting worthless junk."

  For once Angela was defensive and at a loss for a good answer. "It's peculiar - I just knew I had to have it. Don't worry, you'll get your ten pounds back."

  "That isn't it. If it pleases you, that's good enough for me. I just wondered why."

  "Put it down to feminine intuition, if you like."

  "Intuition of what?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Can't you simply say I wanted it and leave it there?"

  Harold knew well enough not to dig further. He did however mention the incident to a friend when they next met. Andrew was only mildly interested in it as behaviour, since he maintained that there was no accounting for women's ways in general, but he was thoroughly intrigued by the description of the object. He suggested it might be some kind of hurdy-gurdy - an ancient and respectable instrument, he stressed, not to be confused with the Victorian street piano - and jumped at the chance when Harold asked if he would like to see it.

  "Ah, yes, I thought so. It looks as though it would have one stopped string and four drones that could be selected by these buttons. They'd be anchored to the ring here, then passed over this bridge to be stroked by the wheel, and the pegs at the other end would adjust the tension."

  And so on with a technical discussion of what strings could be used and how they might be set up. Harold found himself quite keen to do that and to hear what it would sound like. "Probably not brilliant. But with mechanical bowing and stopping, it should at least be less painful than you can get from a violin if you're not too good at it. And it might improve with use; they say a decent violin does, though I've never heard an explanation that made sense."

  Soon afterwards Angela returned from an errand and Andrew explained the nature of her find over coffee. He too wondered casually what had induced her to buy it, and she had no better idea than before, especially since the urge to possess it had faded as suddenly as it had seized her. In fact ... "You seem particularly interested, Andrew."

  "Yes, I've never come across one of these before, not to examine it. The odd one at a distance, or pictured in a book. Never close to."

  "Would you like to have it, then?"

  "What! Are you serious?"

  "Yes, perfectly."

  Harold was astonished. "What's come over you? After you were so keen to buy it."

  "I don't know. I've changed my mind, that's all."

  There was clearly no point in arguing, especially in view of her evident embarrassment; after all, it was traditionally a woman's prerogative, however puzzling it might be. Angela came back to the point. "Anyway, Andrew, how about it? It's yours if you'd like it."

  "Well, if you're really sure ... I'd love to. It's a real treasure trove. How much ...?"

>   "Oh, don't worry about that. You're welcome to it."

  "I hardly know what to say - but thank you very much indeed!"

  They arranged that Harold would get his nephew to make replacements for the missing pegs, then deliver it to Andrew who would meanwhile get such strings as his violinist daughter-in-law might recommend. She happened to be visiting with her own teenage daughter on the day, and young Julia was immediately fascinated by the instrument, watching the fitting of the strings like a cat at a mouse hole. Several times Andrew had to tell her to get her nose out of the way. Deciding a suitable tuning for the strings took much discussion and experiment, but then of course Julia had to try playing it. Although a length of binding tape served for the time being as a sling, she still took a little while to get the hang of holding the case steady while cranking the wheel, but once she did and found her way round the keyboard, she produced some tunes that sounded promising if a little strange. In time she gradually became fairly proficient.

  A few months later, Andrew mentioned a second-hand bookshop that had opened recently near his home, so of course Harold had to investigate. Most of the stock could be passed over with scarcely a glance: the inevitable pound-apiece box of shabby paperbacks, sheaves of old prints, a display of remaindered coffee-table blockbusters handsome enough but far from his interests, outdated technical manuals ("Modern Photography" with a torn dust-jacket depicting an early Leica) and rack after rack of novels and memoirs that probably hadn't been read for half a lifetime but lacked the attraction of greater age.

  The shopkeeper, who had been occupied with a customer, approached and asked if he could help. Harold doubted it, but feeling it would be churlish to leave it at that, commented on the recent opening. Had he been in the trade elsewhere? "Yes, I was in a partnership, but it was going rather sour. The lease of this place came up, so we split the stock and here I am. What do you think of it?"

  This put Harold on the spot, and the most diplomatic verdict he could give off the cuff, without a lie that would be betrayed by failing to purchase, was "Well - rather disappointing, I'm afraid."

  "Ah. Were you looking for anything in particular?"

  "I was hoping you might have some older stuff."

  "Oh, sorry. My partner was more interested in that sort of thing. But now I come to think of it, there's a box in the store from a house that was being cleared a few weeks ago, and I haven't got round to sorting it yet. To be honest I'd forgotten about it. It was really only dumped here and I'm not too hopeful, but you're welcome to rummage through it if you like."

  Harold took up the offer, chiefly out of courtesy. Unpromising as it was at first, he persisted and rather to his surprise found at the bottom a little volume on mediaeval and renaissance musical instruments that in view of recent events he thought might interest Andrew, even if he himself found little of value in it.

  "Any good?" asked Angela when he returned home.

  "Not much. But I did get this. More Andrew's line than mine, but it eased my conscience a bit."

  "It's about time you learned to harden your heart when there's really nothing you want."

  "I usually do, but ... well, he's newly set up and was helpful ... I'll just have a quick dip into it."

  "Hmm. I know your quick dips. Remember, lunch will be ready in half an hour."

  He had barely started when the telephone rang, a sales call that he dismissed more abruptly than usual. On returning he found that the book had fallen, fortunately without damage, but open at a different page where something caught his attention. "Hey! This is interesting!"

  "What is?" came slightly muffled from the kitchen.

  "It says here that Antonio Stradivari - "

  "The violin-maker?"

  "That's him - it says he used to tell a family legend about some mad ancestor who also made musical instruments and actually had quite a good reputation for them. But his particular pride was in his symphonies - "

  "I thought you said he was an instrument-maker, not a composer."

  "Yes, 'symphony' at that time was a posh name for the hurdy-gurdy. Anyway, it seems he claimed they were better than rebecs, fiddles and the like. Utter nonsense, of course - they couldn't possibly match a bowed instrument."

  "Why not?"

  "You can get a better variety of tone and more expression with a separate bow."

  "Perhaps they weren't up to such subtleties in his day."

  "I suppose that's possible. There's no indication how far back the story went. At any rate he didn't think much of the musicians who came to him for instruments, and eventually said he was going to put his whole soul into a symphony so good that it would itself search out performers worthy of it. At that point the family decided that this whiff of sorcery was liable to get them all into serious trouble and told him to clear off - go away to England or somewhere - "

  "Why England?"

  "Because (it says) they're all mad there."

  "Charming! What happened to him after that?"

  "No one was quite sure, though there's a cock and bull tale about his making a bargain with the devil to put the extra powers into his masterpiece, and ending up being carried off to hell - you know the sort of thing. Probably all invented by the folks back home after he'd gone. The kind of story to tell at Halloween. Anyway, they used it as an awful warning to any of the clan who seemed to be getting a bit too big for his boots."

  Angela thought the ancestor sounded an interesting character, and it was a pity not to know more about him. "Yes - supposing he really existed."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, maybe old Antonio just made up the tale to amuse his friends. Or one of his forebears cooked it up to put down a cocky youngster."

  "There must have been something behind it. After all, there was even a real Faust. The same man, perhaps?"

  "Faust was German. And there's nothing in the legends about his having anything much to do with music, is there?"

  "Not that I know. But that doesn't mean he didn't."

  "That way you could argue anything. And there's no need. There were all sorts of weird beliefs and practices about that time, and all sorts of people dabbling in them. It isn't like a provincial theatre - you don't have to economise on actors."

  "That reminds me, did you remember to pick up the theatre programme?"

  "Yes."

  "Anything interesting?"

  "I haven't looked at it yet. I put it somewhere - ah, yes, got it. Good lord!"

  "What's the matter?"

  "Guess what they're doing next month."

  "I've no idea."

  "Doctor Faustus!"

  "A bit ambitious, isn't it? I shouldn't have said the company was big enough."

  "If they're doing it in full. But you can double some of the parts, and a lot of the buffoonery with minor characters is often cut. Do you fancy seeing it?"

  "Might be interesting. What else is there?"

  "Nothing very exciting. Take a look."

  "Not now - I'm just serving up. So come and get your lunch."

  With Andrew and his wife they decided to make the theatre visit a foursome. Afterwards Harold mentioned to Andrew the story of Stradivari's ancestor and his supposed Faustian bargain for a super-symphony, which he thought seemed a very one-sided deal just for one instrument. "Well, it should at least have made his reputation."

  "He had that already."

  "Yes, as a good run-of-the-mill craftsman. He probably wanted more. And maybe there was more to it than that - supernaturally heightened skill in everything he did, perhaps. And probably a few choice perks on the side. These legends usually involve some more down-to-earth benefits, don't they? Like fabulous wealth, or being irresistible to any woman he fancied."

  "I suppose so, if there was anything in it at all, which I very much doubt."

  "You're just an old cynic, Harold."

  "A sceptic, yes, where that sort of thing's concerned."

  "I wonder - if you
were offered that sort of bargain, what would you go for?"

  "What's the point? It's never likely to happen."

  "Something of the sort can these days with a lottery win."

  "It can provide the wealth, yes. But that seems a very mixed blessing - positively ruinous, sometimes."

  "Fair enough. But what else would you ask for?"

  "I need notice of that question. One thing's certain - nothing on earth would make me irresistible to women!"

  "Just as well," commented Angela, rejoining the conversation.

  She had soon become impatient with all this fanciful speculation, and asked how Julia was getting on with her studies. "Quite well. But Ruth says she spends too much time on the hurdy-gurdy since Andrew lent it to her a while back, and the music teacher is afraid her piano-playing may suffer."

  "Plenty of people do play two completely different instruments, don't they?"

  "Yes, but the teacher thinks that Julia has just about enough practice time for one, quite apart from the little matter of ability. And if she ever did take up another, it ought to be something still in general use, with wider possibilities and a standard repertoire. One of the woodwinds, perhaps."

  "What does Julia say to that?"

  "It's rather worrying. She gets unreasonably cross whenever it's put to her."

  "The awkward age?"

  "A year or two ago I'd have put it down to that. She was difficult over all sorts of things. But she seemed to be getting more amenable lately - until this came along."

  "I didn't know you'd lent the hurdy-gurdy to Julia," Angela commented to Andrew.

  "Yes, it seemed sensible, though I'm sorry if it's caused trouble. I'd had a good look at it and satisfied my immediate curiosity. And it was more convenient for Julia than having to come round to my place when she wanted to play it. It's easier for me to go there if I want. You don't mind, do you?"

  "Not at all. It was a gift, with no strings attached."

  "True," remarked Harold. "We fitted those later. Sorry -" as Angela threw a cushion at him; "You did rather walk into that one. I couldn't resist it."

  "You wouldn't try!"

  Andrew was startled. "Angela! What's bitten you? I do believe you're getting positively kittenish."

  "How do you mean?"

  "If I hadn't seen it myself, I'd have thought the idea of your going in for anything like pillow-fighting was too bizarre for words."

  He was right, Harold realised; Angela was habitually as staid a matron as could be imagined. But now he thought of it, she did seem to have become more relaxed recently. With a jolt he remembered her sharing a joke with the postman the day before, and his thinking it rather odd in a way that he couldn't quite pin down. That was it; it would have been unthinkably out of character a year or even six months earlier. "Well, we can't stand on our dignity all the time, can we?" she said.

  "Is that the royal we?"

  "No, it applies to all of us."

  A bit sweeping, Harold thought. He tried to remember an occasion when he had stood on his dignity, but failed miserably. It wasn't in his nature, and besides, with Angela around he never felt he had enough dignity to stand on; it wouldn't bear his weight. Still, if it meant she was going to be less prickly in future, that was all to the good and there was no point in spoiling it by quibbling.

  Julia meanwhile was at a party and not enjoying it. She had always been serious-minded, if anything a bit of a loner, not to say a prude. The invitation to a neighbour's eighteenth birthday celebration at a large hotel nearby had been sent only as a formal courtesy, as she knew perfectly well, and an excuse would neither have surprised nor offended anyone; quite the reverse. Indeed, she would not have accepted but for the urging of her mother. Much as Ruth pushed her to succeed in her studies, she worried about the lack of social contact, so although Julia would have greatly preferred a quiet evening with a book, she was persuaded to go for the sake of peace at home.

  She delayed as long as she could so that the party was in full swing when she arrived, and came fully down to her expectations. The noise was barely tolerable, conversation impossible even if she had seen anyone who might want it, she drank at most in moderation and had no time at all for the other stimulants that she supposed were to blame for much of what she was disgusted to see going on. After fending off several clumsy approaches by lads who would never have given her a second glance when sober or if their original partners were still upright, she escaped into the garden for a breath of fresh air. Given a break in the racket she would try to thank Sylvia and leave. Otherwise, she would leave anyway after a decent interval. No one would miss her.

  The night was clear but rather chilly so she wandered over to a summerhouse that promised some shelter from a light breeze. On the threshold she stumbled and fell against someone already there, a man she guessed to be about twenty, who caught her and hushed her apologies. He introduced himself as Sylvia's brother Martin, down from university for the occasion but no more impressed than Julia by the proceedings, although that was not his only reason for being out there: the view of the stars was better than he would normally get. "Are you interested in those things, then?"

  "Well, the night sky is beautiful. I don't often get a chance to see it so well - too much artificial light near my digs."

  "Can you recognise all the constellations?"

  "A few. You know the Plough, I suppose, over there, with the Pole Star in line with the two stars opposite the handle. On the other side of the pole the big W is Cassiopeia. That way the V on its side is Taurus and the rather faint little group to the right is the Pleiades. Then behind Taurus, Orion is just coming up, with the particularly bright reddish star in the top left corner. That's really spectacular in winter. And there I run out!"

  Julia was impressed. "Is that what you're studying?"

  "No, I'm reading maths. Star-gazing is just a bit of light relaxation."

  "Do you have any other? When it's cloudy, for instance."

  "As it happens, yes. I'm in a small early music group."

  "Not quite the sort of thing Sylvia's brought in!"

  Martin shuddered. "No indeed. We go mostly for Tudor and Stuart stuff."

  "Very civilised. Period instruments, I suppose?"

  "Not originals, of course, but copies or imitations for the most part. A modern fiddle fits in fairly well, luckily."

  The wind was rising and Julia shivered. He asked if she would like to go inside. "I think I'd better go. The noise seems to be getting worse."

  "May I see you home, then?"

  "Thank you - I'd like that."

  Under a clear sky the wind grew cooler as they walked, and after a moment's hesitation she invited Martin in for a coffee to warm him up. "That's all I'm offering, by the way. Apart perhaps from a biscuit or two."

  He remembered how a particularly strait-laced friend had been embarrassed to find on one occasion that very much more than coffee was expected, to huge amusement when the tale got out. Not that Martin had thought Julia at all likely to be a man-eater, but on the whole he was glad to avoid any risk of misunderstanding. "Thanks. That would be very welcome."

  When she went to prepare the coffee, he noticed the hurdy-gurdy where she had left it before going out. He was still examining it when she returned with a tray. "Oh, you've found that old thing."

  "Yes, it's quite remarkable. There aren't many about. Where on earth did you get it?"

  "It isn't mine. Grandad was given it by a friend, and lent it to me because I was interested."

  "Do you mind if I try it?"

  "Not at all - but have your coffee first."

  From his first touch he seemed to have a natural affinity with the instrument, but after a few minutes he stopped and looked doubtful. "What's the matter, Martin?"

  "Something's not quite right. I think it might be better with different tuning. May I alter it?"

  "Go ahead. We had no idea what it should be - that's just the first we fo
und that seemed to work tolerably well."

  Martin adjusted the tensions a few times, then found a set-up that pleased him and played a few simple tunes. "That's marvellous - how did you do it?"

  "I went for what would naturally suit some of the music we have from that age. I'd love to be able to play it with the rest of the group."

  By this time Julia's parents had returned from an evening engagement but waited for an opportune moment before coming in and being introduced. "That last bit sounded a good deal better than Julia's efforts. What have you done to it?"

  Martin explained, and then wondered, very tentatively, if there could be any possible chance of borrowing the instrument occasionally. Ruth looked questioningly at Julia, who swallowed a few times before suggesting that in fact Andrew might well be willing to give it to him. "But surely ..."

  "I think he'd want it to go to whoever played it best. And that seems to be you."

  Martin eventually agreed that Julia should ask her grandfather about it, and then it was time for him to go. The good-nights at the door seemed to take rather a long while, and Ruth looked quizzically across at her husband. Cyril responded with a wink. "Seems a nice lad," he simply said.

  At his celestial window, Alessandro Stradivari chuckled happily. An incurable romantic, he had been an inveterate match-maker in his later years, sometimes with disastrous results. It was as well that only a part of the wizardry invested in his favourite symphony had been remembered, and at that the less important part. But this one looked promising. Yes, he thought as the friendship developed, very promising indeed. Or so the legend goes.

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