My Former Heart
Page 23
‘Isn’t that the ring I gave your mother?’ he had asked.
‘Yes. Yes, I think it is,’ she had said, trying to sound doubtful, although she knew perfectly well that it was.
‘Shouldn’t think she wore it much after … over the years. Glad it’s seeing the light of day. It suits you,’ he added, turning to Ilse.
The Magnificat was beautiful. Even though Ruth had spent most of her life closely involved with music, it never ceased to astonish her that such perfection could be achievable by ordinary mortals. These singers and musicians were people with kirby grips in their hair or not quite clean handkerchiefs in their pockets. The light in the church glanced off the glass of their spectacles; some didn’t have perfect eyesight, much less perfect beauty; some were people with plain, shiny faces and scuffed shoes. Yet together they were able to create something quite perfect, a sound pure enough, clear and true enough, to make choirs of angels smile.
After the Magnificat there was a cantata, number 82. This was among Ruth’s very favourite pieces by Bach, musically interesting because of its opening aria’s similarity to the great ‘Erbarme dich’ section of the St Matthew Passion, but to her even more lovely, with its sweetly plaintive beginning and the serene yet exuberant gigue at its end. She had been touched when she learned, as a student, that Bach had enjoyed dancing. She liked to imagine him, tapping out the 3/8 rhythm with his foot, as he wrote out the score of the final aria. ‘Ich habe genug’. I have enough. That was its name. As a young woman at music school, when she had first heard the cantata, she had thought the words meant that the singer was weary of the travails of life. She had supposed that this was why the singer announced himself ready to meet his maker. But now she had an apprehension that the singer’s acceptance of his own mortality came not from weariness or anger or despair, but from tranquillity. It was not that he had had enough. It was that he had enough.
The sound of the oboe brought to mind reeds; and reeds, water. As she sat in the abbey, Ilse beside her, she remembered walking along the river bank by her father’s house, as a child. It had been early one summer after tea. The evening sun made the undersides of the clouds pink, so that they reflected pinkish shapes on the surface of the water. She hadn’t been thinking of anything in particular, just ambling along, running her hands across the tops of the cow parsley, tickling her palms with their slightly sticky flowers. And then she had seen it: a bird swooping above the water, its blue back glinting suddenly in the light, then becoming almost invisible against the air. It was much smaller than she had imagined a kingfisher to be, hardly taller than a robin. The bird was like a dart. It dived suddenly and as suddenly emerged, barely discernible now in the shade at the river’s edge, its underside the khaki colour of the river below.
She couldn’t wait to tell her uncle Christopher that she had seen a kingfisher. But she was glad, at the same time, that the bird had appeared while she was on her own. Sometimes things that happened when you were by yourself held a sort of enchantment. Like the feeling you got, walking on a hot afternoon with your swimming towel in a stiff roll under your arm, down through cool trees or along the fringes of a green field, when all of a sudden, there in the distance, came a chink of river or of the sea, a glimpse of blue against the green. Seeing the kingfisher – just her, alone – made Ruth feel singled out, as if something else that was wonderful might be about to occur, or as if the little bird held the promise of some great future happiness.
Acknowledgements
Everyone in this novel is made-up, except James Riddell, whose book Dog in the Snow (Michael Joseph, 1957) was invaluable for details about the Cedars snow-school in the Lebanon. I also consulted the letters of Griffith Pugh, in the mwtc (mountain warfare training centre) pages at mrzsp.demon.co.uk
Nicholas Pearson at 4th Estate is the best and most tolerant of editors and the kindest of men.
John Byrne improved the manuscript no end, not only through his careful reading and wise suggestions, but by teaching me how to use an apostrophe. His own prose and grammar are flawless, so any remaining mistakes are my fault, not his. His generosity, sensitivity and wit are matchless.
Jane Barringer copy-edited with great skill and patience and an eagle eye.
In Chapter 9, Isobel has reservations about some of the music of the 1970s. The views she expresses are not shared by the author. Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull is as funny as he is talented. And I still enjoy listening to The Grateful Dead and, especially, to Graham Nash.
Lastly I would like to thank Charles Hudson for being my first and most enthusiastic reader.
About the Author
Cressida Connolly is a journalist and reviewer, and the author of two previous books: The Happiest Days and The Rare and the Beautiful. She lives in Worcestershire with her husband and three children.
Also by Cressida Connolly
The Happiest Days
The Rare and the Beautiful
Credits
Jacket image © Anna Bjerger
Copyright
Copyright © Cressida Connolly 2011
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The right of Cressida Connolly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Thanks to Alan Trist of Ice Nine Publishing, California for permission to quote Grateful Dead Song ‘Eyes of the World’ (Lyrics Robert Hunter). ‘Aqualung’: words and music by Ian Anderson and Jennie Anderson © copyright 1971 Ian Anderson Music Ltd/Chrysalis Music Ltd. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.
Excerpt from The Badger by Ernest Neal, reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. © 1958
HB ISBN 978-0-00-728711-6
TPB ISBN 978-0-00-743647-7
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EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007455706
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