From the entrance to Notting Hill Gate tube, the crowd carries me down the stairs, every step taking me closer to the Wigmore, and I think about that very first performance, how hearing Noël perform the concerto had made Beethoven come alive for me, so that I felt that I almost knew him. Since that day there’ve been times when, walking along a street, I’ve seen someone who, for a moment, I could’ve sworn was the great composer. With turbulent eyes; ruddy, febrile skin; a fright of brown hair; dirty, patched coat over bullock-like shoulders; bruised black boots; storming through the crowd like a pitching bull. This shocking vision would be more real to me than the sight in the street of a classmate from school and I’d have to stop myself from running up to him and tapping the damp wool of his shoulders.
I step down onto the platform and stand against the yellow-brick arches, humming that luminously sad second movement of the Third, wondering if I’ll ever hear it played like that again, and watching the stream of people exiting the westbound train. Then all of a sudden, amongst the crowd, almost a head above everyone else, I see Noël. The crowd is moving quickly, as if some great current is sucking them off the train, up the steps and spitting them onto the street, and, in the midst of it all, there he is, joyfully oblivious, his wavy hair floating up and down in time to his heedless stroll, a playful rhythm all his own. There is no time to realise how impossible this all is, I just feel this wondrous fluttering in my chest, as if my heart has swelled and actually lifted. He is only thirty yards away —how glorious to see him again! Blood rushes to my cheeks and this great bubbling energy surges about my limbs. Then the gentleman I am adoring turns his head to look in my direction and instantly I am aware of my folly—a complete stranger who bears no real resemblance to Noël at all. Yet I had seen Noël’s features so clearly, heard his chuckling voice in my head.
I watch this unfamiliar, unremarkable man walking through the crowd and this deadening stone drops within me as I remember, once again, that I will never be seeing Noël again. But for that one moment before the realisation—half a second, perhaps that’s as long as it lasted—the melancholy second movement in my head skipped over to the radiant Rondo finale, and all it took was for me to quicken my pace and lunge through the after-work throngs, call out his name and tap him on the shoulder. Because for that one moment, with that exhilarating Allegro rippling all about me, there wasn’t anything in the world that wasn’t perfectly possible. It didn’t matter that I’d been mistaken, a fool, because for that one divine moment, he did exist: it was him.
Acknowledgments
Although this is a work of fiction, I have attempted to be faithful in my recording of significant events in the life of Noël Mewton-Wood, and of the period in which he lived. In doing this, the archival collections at the following institutions in Britain were exceptional sources of information, and the staff generous with their assistance: The National Archives, The BBC Written Archives Centre, The Royal Festival Hall, The Wigmore Hall, The Royal Academy of Music, The Royal College of Music, The Britten-Pears Library, The National Gallery, Lambeth Archives and The Imperial War Museum.
The following books were of great help: A History of the Salzburg Festival by Stephen Gallup (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, c1987), Amiscellany: My Life, My Music by John Amis (London; Boston: Faber and Faber, 1985), Beethoven: Biography of a Genius by George R. Marek (London: Kimber, 1970), The Great Pianists by Harold C. Schonberg (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1963), and Queen’s Hall 1893-1941 by Robert Elkin (London; Melbourne: Rider & Co., 1944). I am also grateful for the permission to use quotes from W. J. Turner: Poet and Music Critic by Wayne McKenna (Kensington: University of NSW Press, 1990), Schumann by Tim Dowley (London: Omnibus Press, 1984), and Tchaikovsky by Wilson Strutte (London: Omnibus Press, 1983); also, a big thank you to Noël’s second cousin Susan Hamilton for granting me permission to use excerpts from letters and documents once belonging to Dulcie and Noël Mewton-Wood, and Walter James Turner.
I would like to express my utmost gratitude to the following people, many of whom were friends or peers of Noël Mewton-Wood, who inspired me with their anecdotes and descriptions of Noël and the British wartime and post-war music scene: Lady Pauline Del Mar, Margaret Kitchin, Tim Gordon, Denys Gueroult, Bryce Morrison, Andrew Porter, Dr Patrick Trevor-Roper, and especially John Dalby, Margaret Burke, Susan Hamilton, and Noël’s very close friend John Amis. This novel would not be what it is without the input of their stories.
Absolutely invaluable were the help and support of my PhD supervisor, Dr Fiona Capp, my generous and insightful RMIT workshopping buddies, and especially my second supervisor, friend and mentor, Antoni Jach. I’m very grateful to those who read various excerpts or drafts of the manuscript: Andrew Morgan, Shannon Hayes, Kalinda Ashton, James Livingston, and in particular Julie Ann Morrison and Cassandra Austin for their masterful feedback.
I’d also like to acknowledge the financial assistance of an Australian Post-graduate Award.
The gloriously kind hospitality of Kim Maddever helped make my London research trip both affordable and extremely enjoyable. Thank you also to Fran Bryson, Tony Bremner, my father Dr Bill Orchard, and my agent Jenny Darling. And most importantly, a big, big thanks to my endlessly supportive husband, James Livingston.
About The Author
Sonia Orchard is the author of the memoir Something More Wonderful (2003), and has a PhD in Creative Writing from the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology, where she also teaches. She lives in Melbourne with her husband and their daughter.
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Copyright
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in 2009
This edition published in 2010
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
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Copyright © Sonia Orchard 2009
The right of Sonia Orchard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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