I was roused by Ma O’Grady’s knock at the door, telling me my aunt was on the phone to wish me a happy birthday. After taking her call I sat at the piano and began my practice. Starting at C, I played every scale—major, harmonic and melodic minor—climbing chromatically up the keyboard. I practised my technical work staccato, legato, in rhythms, lifting each finger towards the roof, marching them like soldiers, each note ringing shrilly about the room. Then I pulled out some pieces: Chopin études, the Schumann, and a Fantasie I had composed in the manner of Schubert—which I had secretly dedicated to Noël—in case I had the opportunity to play at the party. By the time I stopped it was already dark and I realised I hadn’t eaten a thing all day.
Anton had told me the party began at eight. I arrived at Stamford Brook Station at ten minutes to, surprised to be early, as I had taken so long to get dressed that a mild panic had set in, almost preventing me from leaving my room. I had five decent shirts to choose from; I tried them all on several times but was unhappy with how I looked in each. The pale blue one made me look young and gormless; the white dinner shirt was too stiff; the striped one, too prosaic; the patterned one, too cloying; and the woollen one made me perspire. I was certain Noël would sum me up in a glance—that young boy’s been dressed by his mother— and have no interest in meeting me at all. Noël had such effortless poise; clothes hung on him so naturally—it was something that struck me every time I saw him. I’d once seen him walking around Covent Garden with a tall, horsy woman, presumably his mother, and I followed them for some time as they wandered in and out of bookshops and tailors. Even though he was simply strolling along in bags and an open-necked checked shirt, I remembered thinking that every hand gesture, every step, exuded such majesty and calm.
I’d buttoned up the striped shirt and slipped into a jacket when I finally settled upon the blue, remembering that a girl at the Academy who was trying to impress me once remarked how this shirt brought out the colour of my eyes, ‘the shade of a Spanish ceramic glaze,’ she’d said. Then there was my hair, dead straight with an obstinate cowlick that hung forward in limp bands across my brow. The more I combed it, the more it bounced about mockingly. I tried to convince myself that whatever happened that evening would not be determined by the state of my hair, but each time I picked up my scarf and gloves and walked to the door, I’d take one last glance at the mirror and be horrified by the mawkish face that glared back. I was in a state of near exasperation by the time I finally made it out the door.
The party was at the house of Noël’s cousin, the poet and music critic Walter J. Turner. I’d studied the A-Z map so carefully that morning that I was able to head straight towards Hammersmith Terrace as if I came home that way every day. I couldn’t help but think about the sorts of people who might be there—musicians and artists, of course; and plenty of critics, no doubt. I pictured them all standing about chatting about opera premieres, drinking champagne and picking at oysters and other delicacies that my father had talked about eating at the Savoy before the war. He’d told me about functions he’d been to, attended by Chamberlain and other ministers, always shrugging off the distinction of these occasions, telling me that these people were just the same as other human beings—they’re only from another class, he’d say, not another planet. Then again, he was only really talking about politicians and other dignitaries, not about geniuses such as Noël Mewton-Wood.
It was cold and the moon had not yet risen. I rounded the corner into St Peter’s Square when all of a sudden it dawned on me: I hadn’t a clue what I was going to say to Noël when I arrived. All these years—those fanciful conversations I’d had with him, telling him about my life, my music—and all day today, and I’d prepared absolutely nothing! Perhaps meeting him was a ridiculous idea; I ought to return home immediately. I imagined making some comment to him about music, and him throwing his head back in laughter. I had no one there to turn to except Anton, and what was I to say to him? I’d never seen him at a party, only at the Academy and at concerts. And what if he wasn’t there when I arrived? I decided I couldn’t speak to Noël about music—And how was your recent Australian tour? I heard they loved the Beethoven but didn’t know what to make of the Hindemith. No, that would be far too embarrassing, too tedious for him. I’d read he lived out of town in Tunbridge Wells with a wealthy couple called the Eckersleys, and that Nancy Eckersley and Noël bred geese and Alsatians. I also knew he loved literature, painting, antiques, building model theatres and playing tennis. All of a sudden the possibilities overwhelmed me. The more I thought about Noël’s life, the more insignificant mine seemed, and the more I resigned myself to the fact that it would be better if I didn’t speak with him at all.
At Hammersmith Terrace I pulled out my watch, it was only ten past eight. I was at a low brick wall overlooking the Thames, which ran full and fast below me, a light wind wrinkling the surface. The moon was just beginning to peak over the elms on the far side, splashing little daubs of light on the water so that it looked like a river of writhing snakes.
I sat on the steps that led down to the water and started squeezing my right wrist between the fingers of my left hand and then massaging around the joints at the base of my thumb. My right shoulder and arm had been giving me trouble again recently, and when I rubbed it the dull pain, with the occasional electric jab that shot all the way up to my shoulder, gave me a strange sense of relief. Sometimes I could find a point and pinch it crab-like between my thumb and second finger, and it would sustain the intense pain that ran up my arm. I had that point now and the sensation was like a burning wire that ran from my collarbone to my fingertip.
‘Don’t jump, you fool,’ a voice called out from behind me.
I turned around; it was Anton, silhouetted by the streetlights, swaying left and right as he came laughing towards me. He was swaddled in coat, scarf and hat and had a bottle of red wine held like a club in his mittened hands.
I stood up and brushed off the dirt and leaves that clung to the back of my coat, and walked up the road beside him, telling myself that whatever happened inside, it didn’t matter. If it all went terribly wrong, I could just thank the host, slip out, catch the train home and go to bed. I’d wake up in the morning and it would be as if nothing had ever happened.
Anton asked about the Fantasiestücke, and I mumbled a few words in reply as we stepped up to the glossy ivy-green door with its heavy brass knocker. The somnolent street now seemed to be bathed in the glow of the party inside—chatter and laughter emanated from the house, and above it all the sound of Schumann, purling like a breeze through a chandelier.
I glanced down at my father’s old leather brogues, shining up at me so eagerly, and fiddled with the corners of my collar. Up the road, a dull light shone out from the Black Lion Inn and I had the sudden desire to be sitting in there by the fire, surrounded by strangers, all perhaps escaping a party of their own. I decided that’s where I’d go if things didn’t work out. I’d happily stay there all night, I thought, occasionally wandering outside to sit on a bench and watch the guests arrive and leave from number nine.
Anton was thumping the brass knocker, his chin pressed against his Fair Isle vest, humming Corelli. I stood beside him, waiting with my head bowed and hands clasped in front of me.
The door swung open and Walter Turner appeared, arched over us on the landing, glaring at us through the grey hair that hung in front of his crow-like eyes. He was a tall, wiry character in a dark woollen suit, a white shirt and a thin mauve tie. The tips of his shirt collar were buttoned underneath the tie, which jutted out awkwardly below its tiny knot. He appeared to have dressed in rather a hurry.
‘Hello—excellent, excellent,’ he said, flicking his hair to the side, after which it fell immediately back in front of his eyes. ‘It’s Anton, yes? Wonderful. And who’s this? You must be the young chap having a birthday! Seventeen? Wonderful, what a glorious age; yes, the purity and intensity of youth,’ he announced theatrically and nodded to Anton. ‘Do come in
, do come in. Would you like a drink? Delphine? Del-phiiiine?’ he called over his shoulder as he darted behind us, pulling off our coats and hats. ‘Two champagnes, dear.’ He continued, ‘Of course by the time one reaches my age, unless one fosters that youthful spirit, one becomes all dry and withered from lack of life.’ He turned to me, smiling. ‘Like parched orange skin.’ He then launched off down the hall, a flick of his hand behind his back signalling us to follow.
Not an eyebrow was raised as we entered the living room and walked amongst the small clusters of guests, gathered like posies of weary wind-blown poppies. Most stood about in earnest discussion, and although there was the occasional garish bow tie or audacious laugh, on the whole I had to admit it all looked rather dull. Books lined one entire wall, and impressionist paintings of landscapes and figures hung along the others. Then I noticed through the crowd, on the far side of the room, playing at a Steinway Louis XV Grand—Noël.
His head was turned towards the higher octaves as if he were listening to, rather than watching, his hands. He appeared lost in thought, as though he too were standing away from the piano amongst a party of strangers, absorbing the sound that drenched the room. He was playing Schumann’s Fantasie opus 17.
Anton handed me a glass of champagne then signalled for me to follow him. I excused myself, telling him I’d join him presently, hardly recognising my own voice, then walked over to sit on the chartreuse-coloured silk sofa in the far corner, at the foot of the piano.
The instrument almost completely obscured my view of Noël; a sliver of his face, in between the walnut satin body and lid of the piano, was all I could see. If he raised his head and looked forward, he would have been staring straight at me. He did, in fact, lift his head on several occasions, but each time he had that dreamy gaze of a child who’s just woken, oblivious to his environment. The rest of his face was expressionless. I felt a little self-conscious, sitting there staring at him, but was unable to avert my eyes. And no one else seemed to be taking any notice at all. Least of all Noël—his head tilted to the left, his eyes half closed, playing as if he were at home, quite alone.
I looked about the room, recognising several notable faces that, ordinarily, would have filled me with nerves. But next to Noël, and the impassioned pleas of Schumann streaming out of the piano and rattling every ounce of my body, all the other guests appeared remarkably mundane. The composer Benjamin Britten was over near the gramophone, in a buttoned-up pinstriped suit, holding a beer. With his hair smoothly combed in corrugated waves and his large eyes set too far apart, I couldn’t help thinking how comical he looked up close. Next to him, his musical and romantic partner, the tenor Peter Pears, was wearing a green cable-knit vest with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and stood with his chest pushed out as if he was about to break into an aria. There were others—the radio broadcaster John Amis; the Earl of Harewood; and the author A.P. Herbert, who, with his large rubbery nose and the small furry circumflexes that floated above his black-rimmed glasses, looked like he was wearing a children’s disguise. Some faces were so familiar I momentarily thought to nod to them. But, thankfully, just before humiliating myself entirely, their eyes brushed over me without a flicker of recognition and I politely looked away.
I placed my champagne down beside me on the occasional table and noticed a pair of mother-of-pearl cufflinks lying on a crumpled bed of blue tissue paper, with a gold ribbon and card to the side—Dear Noël and a flouncing message and signature. I picked up the cufflinks, stroked their smooth, iridescent surfaces then closed my fingers, holding them like a beetle trapped in my hand, looking around the roomful of guests, challenging anyone to meet my gaze. Noël was deeply absorbed in his playing, staring dreamily at his hands; a sprightly old man with a white beard, who I could have sworn was Bernard Shaw, let out a high-pitched laugh on the other side of the room, but no one else stirred from conversation. From nearby I could hear snippets of discussion on the libretto of Britten’s new opera Peter Grimes, and over the top, the strident voice of Walter, who stood only yards away, talking with a rake-like woman with a severe middle parting.
‘The secret of all the great artists is of pouring the infinite into the finite. And the task for us is to learn to discriminate, to acquire a fine spiritual palate so as to appreciate the true and beautiful, to find that every day is crowded with a thousand beauties…’
I looked about at this new world in which I sat—a world of Bohemian crystal and Dora Carrington portraits. Listening to Walter’s words chime over me, I let the cufflinks tumble about in my sweaty palm before slipping my hand into my jacket and dropping the shimmering bugs into my pocket, thinking that no truer words had ever been spoken.
Despite enjoying the view from the sofa, and the sweet musky smell of the champagne bubbles as I rolled the flute against my lips, I was aware of being the only person in the room, other than Noël, not engaged in conversation. Not wanting to be any sort of burden for Anton or the host, I leaned over to peruse the titles of the library, and my eyes fell immediately upon a book with a blue canvas spine and gold-embossed title—The Correspondence of Robert and Clara Schumann. I pulled it out and opened it on my lap. I’d read these letters a dozen times before; it was one of my father’s favourite books. But sitting there at Walter’s house listening to Noël, I could hardly keep my eyes focused on the page; I just kept thinking to myself how terribly portentous this was, that I had stumbled upon a book on Robert and Clara Schumann, one of the greatest musical and romantic partnerships in history, who’d met at a musical soiree thrown by Clara’s father. I’d always been very taken by the idea that the most profound events in one’s life could take place, not at the end of some arduous trek, but quite fortuitously—any moment could be your very last before fate swoops down and snatches you in its talons.
‘For heaven’s sake, put the book away.’ Anton was squatting down beside me. ‘Noël is very fond of playing duets and I told him you’d be delighted to join him.’
I looked over at the piano. Just at that moment, Noël, still playing, lifted his head, and it was as if the spell he was under suddenly lifted, flinging his presence into the room. He was now at a party—Noël the birthday boy. He looked at me, smiling like an old friend, improvising upon the Schumann, spilling into flamboyant flourishes.
‘Don’t be afraid, he’s a charming young man,’ Anton said.
Anton had called Noël a charming young man; Noël had beckoned me over; it was too extraordinary—maybe I was drunk. I had no time to think about what was happening, something was lifting me to my feet. I turned to Anton and thanked him, then walked around the side of the piano, barely able to feel my legs carrying me along.
Noël looked up with a chummy smile, his hands continuing to play as if they didn’t belong to him. I walked behind him and, without a word, edged onto the burgundy leather piano stool, our bodies almost touching. I looked down and saw how close we were—the grey plaid of my trousers only inches from the charcoal wool of his—and when his arm brushed along mine, it felt like the pluck of a harpsichord string rippling right through me. I might have been sitting next to Schumann himself.
The piece Noël was playing, the Fantasie opus 17, is Schumann’s most passionate piano composition, a piece I must have heard a thousand times as a child. But how different it sounded that evening, being played for me by Noël Mewton-Wood.
My father used to tell me that the Fantasie was a love letter written in musical notes, the falling five-note phrase at the beginning of the first movement echoing a quote from one of Beethoven’s love songs. Schumann wrote it during the three years when his teacher Friedrich Wieck forbade the struggling young composer from making any contact with his teenage daughter Clara. The separation unleashed a frenzy of artistic activity in Schumann—he composed piece after piece, reams of extraordinary music, then found a way to deliver them to Clara.
I used to love listening to this piece with my father. Huddled together at the gramophone, I’d watch the black disc circ
ling around on its bakelite base, the needle bobbing up and down in its groove, then hear that warm crackling sound before the music started.
My father would be peering down through the glasses that clung to the end of his nose, staring at the score in his lap. As the music began his finger would travel along the phrases like a boat sailing along smooth water, leaving a trail of notes in its wake. And whenever that five-note phrase appeared in the music, he’d tap me then hold up his finger, tracing the melody through the air, as it hung so visibly in front of him.
The Fantasie was the first piece of music with which I fell in love.
Noël had just returned to the main theme and was approaching the coda, where the reference to Beethoven’s amorous line is unmistakable, repeating over and over. The rumbling left hand slowed into an adagio, Noël’s fingers barely stroking the ivory keys. The final announcement—pianissimo—stripped of accompaniment, was like a shyly spoken revelation; his long white fingers splayed across four octaves in the culminating chord. By the time Noël’s hands settled into the final radiant C major chord, my heart was beating hard against my chest and it was only the feeling of sheer terror that kept me pinned to the seat.
There was a moment’s pause before Noël lifted his hands in one smooth movement from the piano, dropped them into his lap, then swung around to face me.
‘Well, it’s your birthday. What would you like to play?’ he said, grinning, exposing his pearly teeth, and I realised that for all the times I’d seen his photograph in the newspaper or watched him on stage I’d never really seen him smile. His fingers started skimming up and down the keys again, fluttering like wings in flight, as if he had little control over them. I stared down at his hands, avoiding his gaze. I had expected, and wanted, to find his face somehow unknowable, like a screen idol, or the bust I once saw of King Akhenaton in the British Museum, whose beauty made me tremble. I wanted some physical sign of his divinity; but to my disappointment he looked quite ordinary. Up close, his features were rather plain, too coarse to be truly handsome, and his thick brown hair grew straight out from his head, wiry and wavy, with a design all its own. The most distinctive feature of his face, which I’d never before noticed, was its boyishness: pleading eyes and an effusive smile that, once arrived, didn’t want to leave.
The Virtuoso Page 3
