I was immensely proud of myself as I marched down the footpath; I couldn’t really remember where I’d been going before being summoned over, but I couldn’t have cared less, nor been more satisfied with my day’s work.
That was the beginning of a series of similarly bold encounters that often commenced with the scantest eye contact at a bus stop, and rapidly progressed to being ravished in a delightfully debased manner in the middle of the day, in a St John’s Wood apartment, or once even in a council chamber, and for which I was remunerated handsomely. They were mostly brief and wordless exchanges (though occasionally preceded or followed by oysters and champagne); nevertheless, I found myself becoming quite addicted to these little forays, and craving them every couple of days.
Each time I took a break from my practice and stepped outside my door, knowing exactly the goal in mind, I longed for that electrifying moment of being spotted, the feeling that some ferocious animal had me, amongst a crowd of thousands, within its sights; that he would soon be tearing at my clothes, wanting me with so much heated aggression, ripping at me, biting me, grunting and groaning, then collapsing at my feet alongside his Henry Poole cashmere suit crumpled on the floor. There was also that priceless look in his eyes as he handed me a ten-pound note, that glimmering of tender sadness and, dare I say, of love. Yes, I know it’s a ridiculous thing to suggest, but I was truly convinced these men, even mildly, loved me.
I, however, didn’t love them at all. I found most of them quite repulsive (even if I was exceedingly choosy about the calibre of gentlemen I would yield to). But I loved the diversion they offered, what they did to me, and how adored they made me feel. And little came close to the joy of slapping one of their filthy notes on the counter at the Savoy, sending it on its merry way, ordering a gin martini and one of their finest cigars, and congratulating myself, all the while, on this thrilling lifestyle I’d constructed.
And in my state of post-coital and gin-infused bliss I became convinced that by liberating myself so effortlessly from all financial and sexual burdens, I’d enabled an even greater dedication to my musical practice. Yes, I honestly believed I was doing myself, and my music, the greatest service. Then, five days before the performance, everything suddenly changed.
It was late morning and I was in my room, sorting my laundry, and listening to two announcers on the wireless discussing the British Council’s role in Germany and the British scores now available to German orchestras. I was hardly paying any attention until one of the announcers spoke about the popularity of the British entertainers that the council had sponsored to tour Germany. ‘Absolutely,’ the other responded. ‘Noël Mewton-Wood’s already heading back for his second tour of the country this year, leaving, I believe, tomorrow.’
It was not—or so I told myself—that I now knew that Noël was not going to witness my debut at the Duke’s Hall. In fact, at first I felt a certain comfort that he wasn’t going to be there. But it was something else, something more—it was the sudden awareness of the futility of what I was doing. That I was forcing myself through such inordinate pain in order to play in a student hall with a student orchestra—I almost laughed as I imagined the programme: The Royal Academy of Music Senior Orchestra performing at the Duke’s Hall, Marylebone Road— and while Noël toured Germany. He’d be playing to audiences in Frankfurt and Hamburg, and I, at twenty-one years of age, would be at the Duke’s Hall of all places—the highpoint of my career! Thank Christ he wasn’t going to be here to witness it, I thought.
I poured myself a drink then sat down and composed a letter to Anton, saying that I’d decided to leave the Academy and would he please be so kind as to inform my understudy that he would be performing the concerto. I was not in the least undecided, and not at all disappointed; in fact, I was so unwavering that there really was no reason to discuss my decision. Then I thanked Anton for his tireless support over the years and wished him all the best in the future with his flock of other aspiring pianists.
I walked about my room, quite bewildered at first, unsure how to comprehend all that had appeared to me, all that I was about to do. But as I mused over this revelation I began to feel almost ecstatic—what extraordinary clarity I now had, I thought. It didn’t even cross my mind what I’d do with myself that afternoon, the following day, week, year, or for the rest of my life. All I felt was an overwhelming relief.
I delivered the letter to the staffroom that afternoon and continued on to the administration building where I filled in the necessary forms to remove myself from the student register. I then, predictably, headed off on one of my debauched little jaunts.
I greatly appreciated that Anton never rang. And frankly, thinking about it now, I’m not at all surprised.
The evening of the performance at the Duke’s Hall I had a wonderful night. I sat in my room with a bottle of gin, listening to my Schnabel recording of the C minor concerto, overwhelmed by its stunning beauty, and reassured by the knowledge that I would never have been able to play it so well, and that such a piece ought to be left in the hands of the masters, those who allowed humble music-lovers like myself to best enjoy the music. As I listened I kept thinking how pleased I was that, despite all that had passed, I was still able to enjoy this concerto so much. In fact, without the anxiety of having to perform to some inconsequential crowd, I found the concerto more beautiful and moving—yes, far more moving, in fact—than ever before.
Nowadays I still feel quite nonplussed, remembering leaving the Academy—that I could suddenly throw everything away like that. I don’t lie when I say it really seemed to mean little to me at the time. I’m not sure whether this was simply because I was so rotten drunk every night, my head awash with the clammy, strained faces of so many anonymous men, or whether it was something else. That, somewhere deep within, I knew I didn’t have what it took. To be a virtuoso. To be great.
Yes, that is what I’d discovered through all of this (my wonderful secret had at long last been revealed!): I possessed not an ounce of greatness at all, but rather a hideous ordinariness, at the very best. I suppose I ought to have been more upset than I was as this realisation emerged, but strangely I mainly felt a deep regret: I might have saved myself a lot of bother if I’d stumbled upon this knowledge earlier on.
I mean, I certainly had everything else required to become a virtuoso. Determination. By God, the determination! Just the other day the physiotherapist was giving me some arm stretches to practise (I’m finally getting on top of this damn problem, and even learning to write with my left hand). I asked the little badger of a man, ‘Shall I just do a few stretches each day?’ He raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Knowing you as I do, I’d recommend you do only ten, not one hundred and ten.’ My face heated up and I had to blink furiously—can you believe it?—to fight back the tears. (Why on earth do I just cry at the drop of a hat these days?) I realised there and then with what dogged determination I’ve pursued everything in my life—my father’s approval, Noël, my music; how I’ve fought, fought, fought. I ought to be proud of my tenacity, I know. But for some reason it just made me want to cry.
And love. Yes, my love for music could never be questioned. It really was everything to me, it always had been, even when I was a small child. I remember my first piano teacher, a wonderful woman called Miss Andersen. She lived on her own around the corner from us, though I never saw her outside. It seemed her existence terminated at the walls of her apartment, and within this cocoon, which she always managed to keep warm even when snow was piling up outside the windows, she’d float about in chiffon dresses and fur stoles. I could barely wait for Wednesdays to come around, when I could elope to this magical land and see my queen.
I was Miss Andersen’s first pupil for the day and often she’d be playing the piano when I arrived. I’d hear music tumbling out through the walls and windows onto the street and I’d perch under the petunias on the sill and listen, imagining this quiet, elegant lady in her floral dress, poring over the keys like a swan gazing into the
water. I would wait until the very last moment I could, until it might seem that I was late, then I would lightly knock, half hoping she wouldn’t hear, bracing myself for that abrupt silence, like a flower being ripped from the ground. There’d be a velvety flurry and then she’d open the door, gloriously flustered. I wanted to tell her I’d been listening for ten minutes, that more than anything I’d like to sit next to her on the stool while she played. But I was always too embarrassed to ask, so I’d just smile and tell her that I’d only just arrived, settle myself at the piano and pull out my Czerny or Clementi, hand her my exercise book, then sit up straight and wait to begin my scales.
Oh, I adored those lessons and I adored that woman. I’d leave her house each week drunk with music, humming the suites of Bach all the way home. I was devastated when she left London at the beginning of the war and I was shunted off to Neville Majors like some greyhound switching kennels.
I still loved the music, of course. And I guess I must have been good at it. Just not good enough. Not great. I didn’t have the fury. The madness. I suppose I ought to be glad.
Martha was at the door just now, banging away to be heard over the C minor. Next thing, her little bonneted head was poking around the door and she was bellowing out that Mr Maddever was on the telephone (checking on me, no doubt). Told her to tell him I was fine but slightly busy—she’s quite used to my lies, dear woman—and I’d see him before the concert at the Pontefract at six. Dear me, that’s only two hours away. So I asked her to bring me a strong coffee and a bite to eat.
No, I didn’t lie—I am busy. I’m listening to my records.
So anyway—my career as a musician. All gone. One must get used to that in life, I suppose: watching one’s childhood dreams drifting like debris out to sea. In the summer of 1950 I went to see Noël perform Khachaturian’s Piano Concerto at the Proms. Each time I saw him perform, I sensed something—a hunger— growing within him that extended to his playing, to his approach to the music and in his choice to perform such demanding, even punishing, works. He’d once joked to me that it was only by pure luck that he’d been born with fingernails that weren’t too embedded in the pulp of his fingertip, so that he could bang away on the piano without drawing too much blood. I considered his increased daring as being part of a growing musical maturity, carrying him even further away from the swarm of pianists that had flooded post-war London with their tiny repertoires performed with such chilling expertise.
Sitting back and watching him from the floor of the Albert Hall, gazing at his solitary figure at the foot of the massive black Steinway, I saw a lone explorer venturing out into a blizzard, propelled onwards by Lord only knows what. The Khachaturian groaned and sighed with muted snaking sounds, chords pounded over dizzying cadenzas; we might have been seated within a rumbling volcano. I often wondered what Noël was experiencing when he played such works—music that seemed to take him to the very edge.
The lights rose gingerly and the audience started to shift from their trance. I was not ready for speech or any human contact at all, so when I stood, turned to my left and found myself face to face with the gentleman next to me, I immediately looked away.
‘I’m sure we’ve met before…’
I turned back towards this clipped, velvety voice. He stood tall in a Burberry coat and spoke with a refreshing smile. I thought of a Scots pine, with its heaving stillness and balsamic breeze. Behind him was an elderly woman I assumed to be his mother, who barely came up to his shoulders and who was done up as if for a coronation.
‘You’re a friend of Tippett’s, aren’t you? I’ve met you at Morley College. Gerald Maddever.’ We shook hands and the woman’s tiara-crowned head peered over the miniature lace-covered hand she had perched upon his shoulder.
I was sure we’d never met, but introduced myself and explained that I didn’t know Tippett personally but often attended the Morley College concerts, so perhaps we’d bumped into each other there. He was a good ten or so years my senior—his hair, a fertile crop, was already peppered with grey—and underneath his coat I noticed an immaculately knotted lilac silk tie and a string of carved beads that hung halfway down to his waist.
‘Trappist monks,’ he said casually. ‘Mother picked them up in the Philippines when she was visiting her healers.’ He glanced down and started to twirl the beads with his long manicured fingers. ‘Arthritis,’ he added, and turned to her and smiled.
‘I’m also a friend of Noël’s…’
He looked at me enquiringly, his eyes shining every colour from brown to smoky blue, like a wintry forest landscape.
‘mewton-Wood.’
‘Oh, of course. Yes,’ he said with a huge purring grin that made me blush. ‘Lovely boy. Didn’t he play magnificently tonight? A most exciting musician, isn’t he? There really is no one else like him.’
I was beginning to find Gerald rather attractive; I edged a little closer.
‘I’ve always been very fond of Denis Matthews—I mean aren’t we all?—but then whenever I come and see Noël perform, Denis’s playing just starts to seem so awfully timid. Don’t misunderstand me, he plays Mozart superbly, but you could never ask Denis to play the Khachaturian or the Busoni or the Hindemith. I mean, it would just be plain rude, wouldn’t it?’
‘Absolutely.’
Gerald raised his eyebrows, nodded and continued. ‘But then, there’s Noël’s problem: he’s far too masterful a musician. Nobody wants to be bothered with all that—they just want their pianists to keep pumping out the Beethoven Third and the Tchaikovsky First. They’re what get bums on seats! The Ludus Tonalis, the Fantasia Contrappuntistica— most people simply can’t understand those works!’
‘Yes, but even the Tchaikovsky First was booed off stage at its premiere.’
‘Yes, we critics are a ghastly bunch,’ he said and laughed. ‘I say, how about we continue this over a drink? I was just about to pop Mother in a cab; she wasn’t feeling at all well today—this humidity—and I said to her, Mother, what you need is a night at the Proms. And wasn’t I right, Mumsy?’
She beamed at her son, threaded her arm through his and squeezed it.
‘Righto,’ he grinned at me. ‘Let’s find Mother a cab and be on our way.’
We went to Le Ducé—or le doose, as Gerald called it—on D’Arblay Street. The sign at the door had a picture of a French-looking eighteenth-century prancing dandy; inside, the wood-panelled walls were thick with framed photographs of helicopters, soldiers and bombers, as well as mounted medallions and other war paraphernalia. The crowd was solely men, mostly in suits, some with their hair oiled back, some wearing hats and gloves, and others sporting carnations in their lapels. They were mainly in pairs, or in small groups gathered around lamp-lit tables; a few leaned against the bar, cigarettes dangling from their fingers.
We ordered gins-and-tonic, found a table near the entrance, then Gerald lit me a cigarette.
‘I like it here,’ he said, surveying the room while rubbing the silver lighter against his breast and returning it to his pocket.
I looked around with that feeling of surprise I always get when stumbling upon any unfamiliar environment, that abrupt awakening to the fact that so much of life passes me by unnoticed—I only have to wander down the wrong laneway to find an entirely new world stretched out in front of me, a world I would have never known to exist. ‘Yes, I’ve never been here before. It’s awfully friendly.’
Gerald started laughing. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. You know, it’s sturmfrei,’ he said in a perfect German accent. ‘The safest place around. You’ll see Ducky bring around the hat later.’ Then he leaned in close. ‘For the Police Benevolent Fund.’
I looked away, about the room, catching the gaze of a gentleman who smiled in my direction, as if in confirmation.
‘Noël comes here,’ Gerald continued. ‘When he’s not in Germany, if you know what I mean.’
I smiled, not sure at all what he meant.
‘I’m sure the British Council over there
would have him performing at the Musikhalle every evening if they could,’ Gerald said.
‘Yes, I’ve heard the German audiences adore him.’
‘Oh no, not that,’ Gerald laughed. ‘I’m talking about the Director of the British Council over there, Bill something-or-other—forgotten his name. Don’t think he’s very fond of what Noël gets up to back here.’ Gerald took a sip, and then before he’d even brought down his glass he raised his eyebrows and nodded towards the entrance behind me. ‘Well, I say—speak of the devil. Let’s say hello, shall we?’
Noël had just walked in from the street and stood a few yards away, his skin glistening from the mid-summer humidity.
It had been over three years since we’d last spoken; in that time, he’d toured Europe and Turkey, recorded the mammoth Busoni Concerto with Beecham, as well as several other Schumanns. Even though I’d been reasonably successful at banishing any romantic thoughts from my mind, each time I read articles and notices, or saw him on stage, I’d experience a sudden tremor of weariness, like a marooned voyager looking up at the sun as it travels across the sky. As if time had become a measure of physical distance, and it was actually me, though stationary, who was drifting further away.
But seeing him there so near me, it was suddenly as though only days, and not years, had really passed.
A small chap in a teal smoking jacket jumped up from a table to greet him. ‘Have you met my affair?’ I heard him ask Noël. He had impish eyes, an aquiline nose and black strands of hair swept across his shiny dome.
The Virtuoso Page 14
