Music of the Heart (The Warrender Saga No. 6)

by Mary Burchell

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ exclaimed Gail, greatly moved. ‘He can’t really be arrogant, after all.’

  ‘As a man he is rather,’ Marc assured her with a slight laugh. ‘As a musician not at all. Come along, and we’ll see if we can fight our way round backstage.’

  It was something of a struggle, literally, to make their way through the enthusiastic crowds. But presently one of the ushers recognized Marc and made way for him and his companion.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Mr. Quentin Bannister not here this evening?’

  ‘No. He had to go back to the country,’ Marc said.

  ‘A pity! He would have known how to appreciate tonight.’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ replied Marc courteously. But Gail noticed a slight tightening of his mouth, and she wondered if this were the sort of thing Oliver had meant when he said it was difficult being merely the son of one’s father, instead of someone in one’s own right.

  As they reached the door of the conductor’s room, someone exclaimed, ‘Hello, Marc! Are you just going in to see Oscar? Come with me.’ And Gail realized that it was Anthea Warrender who had caught her companion lightly by the arm.

  Marc performed rapid introductions, the famous young soprano smiled warmly at Gail and then said in a low voice, ‘The opera is terrific, Marc. Makes me almost wish I were a contralto!’

  ‘You like it?’ Marc flushed, a rare sign of pleasure with him. ‘I didn’t know you’d even seen the score.’

  ‘But of course! I went right through it with Oscar. But come and hear what he has to say about it.’ And she gently but very firmly put aside the remaining people in their path and led the way into the conductor’s room.

  In spite of the strenuous evening behind him, Oscar Warrender was standing in animated conversation with a man who looked vaguely familiar to Gail. And as Anthea said, ‘Oh, Max—’ she realized that it was the producer, Max Egon.

  Immediately the conversation was flowing round and about her, and she saw, with a degree of pleasure which surprised her, that they were all speaking to Marc in a congratulatory way. Not just the uninformed congratulation of the politely enthusiastic, but the completely knowledgeable assessment of those who were saluting an equal in their own chosen world.

  No one thought to introduce her further, and she didn’t mind. She stood slightly to one side, happy that Marc should be acclaimed in his own right, questioned and praised by people he knew and valued. She had never seen him look quite like that—brilliant and happy, tremendously lively, and virtually the centre of the group.

  ‘Join us for supper,’ Warrender said finally. ‘Max is coming with us. And the four of us can discuss all this over—’’

  ‘There are five of us,’ Anthea put in kindly. ‘Miss Rostall is with Marc.’

  The conductor’s glance took in Miss Rostall for the first time—without much pleasure. And Gail rose to the occasion with admirable self-sacrifice.

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I simply have to go,’ she explained, with a convincing air of regretful firmness. ‘Marc was good enough to bring me round to add my congratulations to everyone else’s. I just want to thank you for an unforgettable evening. But now I have a train to catch.’

  Warrender accepted this immediately, with a courteous but unmistakable gesture of dismissal. Marc started forward, however,

  ‘No—I can find my way out,’ Gail assured him. But he insisted on coming with her as far as the exit.

  ‘You could have joined us,’ he told her. ‘Warrender wouldn’t really have minded.’

  ‘He certainly would!’ Gail retorted with a laugh. ‘And I don’t blame him. He wants a thoroughly professional discussion with you. To have a casual girl-friend of the evening included would have inhibited things dreadfully.’

  ‘Warrender is not capable of being inhibited where his work is concerned,’ Marc said with a smile. ‘But thank you for being so understanding. More than Lena would have been in like circumstances,’ he added with a flash of wry humour. ‘Come out with me another time, Gail.’

  ‘I’d like to.’ She spoke without a moment’s hesitation. And then, to her astonishment, Marc Bannister bent his head and lightly kissed her cheek.

  ‘You gave me good advice this afternoon,’ he said before he turned to go back into the hall. ‘I shall bear it in mind.’

  And Gail, as she went on her way to the station, had to resist a distinct impulse to put up her hand against the cheek he had kissed. It had been the lightest of salutes. A good deal less significant, she supposed, than the kiss his brother had bestowed upon her after the exciting evening with Tom Mallender. But it had a value all its own.

  Only the faintest disappointment lingered as she thought of the others going out to supper together, to discuss ‘The Exile’. But for her certainty that she would have been a slight brake on the wheel of Marc’s interests, she would have loved to have gone too. Anthea’s quick kindness would have made it possible. Marc’s willingness to include her confirmed that. And possibly within half an hour Warrender himself would have accepted her into the magic circle. (After all, she had been tried out in the leading role!) But she knew instinctively that Marc’s friendly impulse to take her to the concert was on an entirely different level from the importance of talking about his work with Oscar Warrender.

  ‘Don’t over-estimate your importance, my girl,’ she told herself, as she walked up the hill to her flat. And when she let herself in, and saw the smug little Cupid sitting on the mantelpiece, playing with his bow and arrows, she went over and addressed him.

  ‘I could have gone out to supper with him,’ she said, ‘and I didn’t. It wasn’t only tact. I wanted the best for him. I like him—in spite of a bad beginning. And you, you fat little wretch, are partly responsible!’

  But the Cupid just smiled and went on fitting an arrow to his bow. He didn’t need anyone to tell him what his work was.

  The following morning Oliver telephoned early to say that Tom and he wanted her to come over to the studio and spend Saturday afternoon with them.

  ‘Things are going well. And we want you in on them,’ he explained flatteringly.

  ‘Oh, Oliver, I’m terribly sorry! I can’t. I have an extra lesson with Madame Marburger,’ Gail said.

  ‘But you won’t be doing that all the afternoon, for goodness’ sake!’

  ‘I might be. I don’t know how long the lesson might last.’

  ‘Why? What are you working on that requires all that special grind?’ he wanted to know, the note of irritation in his voice betraying impatience with anything that threatened to slow down his own plans.

  ‘There’s the possibility of an important audition coming up and I want—’

  ‘What audition?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t explain now. Madame Marburger has offered to give up her Saturday afternoon. I can hardly quibble about mine, can I? Couldn’t I come along to the studio later?—in the early evening?’

  ‘I suppose you could,’ he agreed rather ungraciously. ‘Get away as soon as you can. Why can’t you tell me what it’s all about? What’s the mystery?’

  There's no mystery,’ Gail said, her heart thumping rather heavily at the realization that she was handling this badly. She should never have used the word ‘audition’. It led too easily to the very subject she was not to discuss. ‘I’ll tell you more about it when I see you,’ she promised hastily, and then she rang off.

  She would manage to think of something before she had to face him in person. Meanwhile, she gave all her thoughts and energy to working on that first scene.

  Gail was a quick learner and found little difficulty in the actual memorizing. What was much more important and difficult was the phrasing, the right emphasis, the conveying of a mood by the inflection of the voice. The actual structure of the music was deceptively simple, but she realized that it required a very subtle variation of tone colour, and after the first hour or two she was completely fascinated by die work.

  When she went to h
er lesson on Saturday afternoon she was already beginning to live the part, and every minute of that long afternoon was a joy to her.

  Even when the lesson was over and she was on her way to Tom Mallender’s studio she had some difficulty in switching her thoughts from The Exile’ to the affairs of Oliver and his friend. But both the young men greeted her with such genuine pleasure that she felt her heart warm to them.

  To her relief, Oliver forgot to ask about the audition she had mentioned. Indeed he made no enquiries at all until she said something about being a little tired and being glad to relax. At that point Oliver observed, ‘You’re working too hard. All that oratorio stuff takes it out of you. What was the big date, by the way? Are the Royal Choral waiting to snatch you up?’

  ‘Hardly!’ Gail laughed. And even as she was wondering how she should change the subject, Tom exclaimed, ‘Forget about all that and come in with us, Gail.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She looked startled.

  ‘We’re heading for the top in our own line of business. We’re convinced of that. And we’d like you to be with us. Oliver will enjoy writing things specially for you, won’t you, Noll?’

  ‘More than I can say,’ Oliver smiled at her. ‘But I didn’t dare to bring up the subject’

  ‘You can’t be serious?’ Gail glanced quickly from one to the other of them.

  ‘We’re completely serious,’ Tom assured her. ‘You’ve got something, Gail. And it’s something that belongs to our line. You don’t want to spend your life drudging away at the odd oratorio engagement, or small operatic bits and pieces—’

  She started to speak, but he said, ‘No, let me finish. You haven’t got the kind of equipment that makes a prima donna, and the second and third line stuff in that world is pretty thankless. There are dozens—hundreds—of good, capable singers who are never going to scratch much more than a crust. And unless you’re damn lucky you’re likely to be one of them. Whereas, if you throw in your lot with us, we’ll make you a star.’

  ‘I couldn’t even think of it!’ Gail was quite white with mingled anger and dismay. ‘You don’t really know anything about my particular gifts, such as they are. I don’t presume to see myself as a world-shaking prima donna, it’s true. But I think I have it in me to get pretty near the top of the tree. I’m not only speaking from my own hopes and beliefs. My teacher thinks very well of me, and I’ve had quite a lot of encouragement from—’ She stopped, for she had almost stumbled on to the forbidden topic. Instead, she turned rather angrily on Oliver and exclaimed, ‘Do you think the same as Tom? You’ve heard me in the more serious stuff, and you’ve had some experience. Do you honestly think I’ll never make my way in the world of serious music?’

  ‘No, I don’t think that.’ Oliver looked faintly uncomfortable. ‘I think that with luck you might indeed, as you say, get somewhere near the top of the tree—in this country at least. Even without luck you’d probably make a reasonable living. You’re a good oratorio singer, and there’s always a demand for that. But it’s a heartbreaking life if one doesn’t have the luck, Gail. It’s no good saying anything else. I’ve seen a good deal of that, one way and another.’ f

  ‘And what about the luck that’s required for your kind of musical life?’ she retorted. ‘Are you going to tell me that luck isn’t desperately needed there too?’

  ‘Of course it is. But—’ Oliver looked at Tom and Tom nodded as though to confirm whatever Oliver was going to say.

  ‘Gail, we both think this is our luck,’ Oliver said earnestly. ‘Yours and ours. We think that together we could be a terrific combination. The spark we struck the other evening isn’t just a passing thing. It was the kind of spark that lights a bonfire. Luck doesn’t always come in the same guise. Our luck is that we have all come together at the right moment. You inspire us and we inspire you. We belong together as a team. Tom and I are both convinced of that. That is our luck. That we found each other.’

  ‘But I couldn’t, Oliver dear!’ All the anger had gone out of her now, but she simply could not let herself follow his line of reasoning. ‘All my work and study—everything that I love and believe—belongs to what one calls serious music. Oh, don’t think I’m underestimating what you two are doing. On the contrary, I think it’s brilliant and I think it’s going to succeed. Only it’s not for me.’

  ‘It is, you know,’ said Tom, while Oliver remained silent. ‘You’ve got just the right mixture of sentiment without sugariness and wit without cynicism. And you have style—quality. And the fact that you bring a really stunning voice to it all helps to lift the thing to a level far above the usual run of popular stuff.’

  ‘But suppose you’re wrong, Tom?’ She faced him, not aggressively but realistically. .‘You’re gambling on your beliefs just as I suppose you might say I’m gambling on mine. I hate to say it, but, although we all think well of your big effort, it might not be a success—and my big effort might. It’s a toss-up. You can’t expect me to abandon the work of years on the strength of your belief in your own judgment, can you?’

  ‘But what big effort in your own line have you got to put up against out proposition?’ Tom asked bluntly. ‘You say yourself that you have some minor engagements here and there—’ He stopped as an odd expression came over her face. ‘Well, what have you got?’ he asked curiously.

  And Oliver echoed, ‘Yes, what have you got, Gail? Is this the big mystery?’

  ‘N-no—’ she began. But she could see his quick mind working, and she was not really surprised when he exclaimed,

  ‘Is it something to do with “The Exile”?’

  She was silent, not knowing at all how to handle the discussion now that it had taken this turn, and Oliver said earnestly, ‘Gail dear, don’t attach any importance to what Marc and my father said. They’re quite capable of raising all sorts of hopes and then—’

  ‘It’s not that!’ she interrupted desperately. ‘It’s not only what was said during that week-end. It’s—oh, I suppose I just have to tell you. But please, please understand—this is entirely between ourselves, and Marc certainly mustn’t know, at any price. Your father genuinely wants me in the part of Anya, Oliver. He came to see Madame Marburger about it, and he’s prepared to coach me himself, so that I shall show up at my very best when it comes to the real auditions. He thinks Marc is prejudiced and he’s determined—’

  ‘The old devil!’ interjected Oliver rather admiringly. ‘So he’s determined to make Marc swallow you somehow.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’ Indeed Gail winced at the expression. ‘He says—I suppose correctly—that he has had much more experience than Marc in knowing how an artist can sound after the proper coaching and guidance. He doesn’t want Marc just to judge on that rather raw performance the other day. He’s kind enough to say that he himself can assess the actual potential in me and that—’

  ‘My father isn’t “kind enough” for anything,’ Oliver interrupted. ‘He isn’t what you mean by a kind man at all. If he says he can judge your real potential, it has nothing to do with kindness. He means just exactly what he says, and he’s backing his fancy because he truly believes he can make the Anya of all Anyas out of you. The fact that Marc—the mere composer of the work—might think otherwise is not even interesting to him.’

  Again Gail was silent, with something like dismay. And Oliver turned to his friend with a resigned shrug.

  ‘I don’t think we can offer anything to outweigh this, Tom. I’m sorry. I still think we could have been a grand team together. But we’re not even in the business yet. And I agree with Gail—she can’t afford to pass up my father’s offer.’

  Tom muttered something, but Gail looked gratefully at Oliver.

  ‘You won’t breathe a word about all this outside this room, will you?’ she said anxiously. ‘I’ll keep quiet about your work, and you must please keep quiet about mine. I don’t really like being in this equivocal position, but those were your father’s terms. And, as he said himself, it’s real
ly in Marc’s best interests too, because if—’

  ‘That’s Father’s story, and he’s sticking to it?’ suggested Oliver with a grin.

  ‘Well, it is true, isn’t it?’

  ‘If Father turns out to be right—yes.’ Oliver laughed. ‘But I wouldn’t much like the job of explaining that to Marc.’

  ‘No one is going to have to explain it to Marc,’ Gail protested, in some agitation. ‘Least of all myself. If, when the time comes, he thinks I’m no good—well, I’ve had my chance and that’s that. But if he thinks I’m really what he wants for his opera, he won’t mind much about hew I came to that point.’

  ‘I hope he thinks you’re no good,’ observed Tom calmly.

  ‘Tom, you beast!’

  ‘Not at all. Like all geniuses, I’m entirely self-centred,’ said Tom complacently. ‘Why should I hope you succeed in something that will run counter to my own interests? Would you like to hear our latest number?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Gail laughed crossly—but she laughed.

  She came eagerly to the piano then, and suddenly the mood of optimism and inspiration was on them all again, and the evening was entirely gay and delightful after that.

  On the way home, Oliver asked her one or two further questions about his father’s project Then he said, ‘He’ll have to hurry, Gail. And so will you. I understand Oscar Warrender is interested in the work—even to the extent of possibly conducting it himself. That could mean some pretty early auditioning. He usually goes to the States towards the end of the year, and he would probably want to get most of the casting done before he went.’