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

by Mary Burchell

  ‘Then you mean,’ said Gail, after a pause, ‘that my conception of the part is wrong? that, left to yourself, you would not be in favour of casting me for Anya?’

  ‘If I’d simply heard about your conception of the part in theory, quite frankly, I wouldn’t. But you gave such an amazingly complete performance of what you conceive to be the part that, to tell you the truth, I’m shaken. To arrive at such a finished, “in-depth” idea of the girl in a matter of two weeks can mean only that you were pretty well inspired. I don’t think I’ve ever known such a thing happen before.’

  ‘You—you mean that?’ He was not the only one who was shaken at that point.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Marc looked across the table at her with a sort of admiring curiosity. ‘It’s an extraordinary experience, to be given an entirely new slant on a creation of one’s own by a slip of a girl like you. It’s not only that you obviously feel Anya that way. Everything is musically geared to the idea. Phrasing, balance, tone-colour. It’s an amazing achievement. Would be amazing in an experienced artist. In a girl like you it’s almost frightening.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ protested Gail, who felt much more frightened than he possibly could have in that moment.

  ‘Well, at least it gives one a terrific mental jolt,’ he declared. ‘That’s why I’ve spent the last few hours asking myself if a mere composer could perhaps be wrong about his own work.’

  He laughed as he said that, but his eyes were serious as they regarded her, still with that air of puzzled interest.

  ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Gail desperately, ‘someone else will come along with your idea of the part magnificently carried out. Then you’ll know that you were right, and that she is the person for the part.’

  ‘Very high-minded of you to say so,’ he said teasingly. ‘But the fact is, my dear, that you were the last one we auditioned for the part of Anya. The remaining auditions are for the men.’

  ‘I was the last one?’ Suddenly her eyes were wide, and her heart was beating hard.

  ‘Yes. I intended you to be heard earlier on and, quite candidly, cleared out of the way with several other (as I thought) inconsiderable applicants. It was my father who, for some unknown reason, had you moved to the end of the list.’

  ‘Was it?’ said Gail faintly, and she passed the tip of her tongue over rather dry lips. ‘And among those you heard before me, were there none who handled the role in the way you see it?’

  ‘One or two of them—yes. In a strictly conventional operatic sort of way. But none of them displayed your artistry or originality. One well-known singer—I won’t name her—had a good idea of the part, but the voice is thinning out badly nowadays, because she has been doing roles that are much too heavy for her. On the other hand, the girl just before you, for instance, had a splendid voice and a certain feeling for drama. But she was pretty raw stuff, really.’

  Gail remembered that Madame Marburger had used just that term, but she said doubtfully, ‘You don’t think you could work on her? Refine her performance in some way?’

  ‘No,’ replied Marc, without qualification. And Gail nervously tasted the delicious food set in front of her and said nothing.

  ‘The second girl we auditioned had something of my idea of Anya, and I thought she might be teachable. But my father turned her down unhesitatingly. And, though I don’t see eye to eye with him about everything, I have to accept his judgement on that particular topic. He has an infallible talent for knowing just what an artist should sound like if properly handled. When he says there is potential there, he’s invariably right. When he says not, then I’m bound to say one has to accept it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gail, feeling worse and worse. Then presently, after a great effort to calm herself, she managed to ask, ‘Are you still trying to make up your own mind? or have you really come to some sort of decision, and are just wondering how to carry the others with you?’

  ‘I’ve almost come to a decision, Gail. And that would mean my letting the others carry me with them,' he admitted with a laugh. ‘The fact is that your performance was so gloriously right, on its own terms, that I’m inclined to accept it, even though it isn’t my own original conception of the part.’

  ‘But you don’t feel altogether happy about it?’

  ‘If anyone else of real quality were in the running, I’d be less able to make up my mind. As it is—’ he paused, bit his lip, and then suddenly seemed to come to a decision—‘as it is, Gail, your performance is too good to turn down. I accept it.’

  For a moment Gail knew exactly what was meant when people spoke of ‘the room whirling round them’. She was literally giddy. Then she put her hand over Marc’s as it lay on the table and said earnestly, ‘Marc, will you try to teach me your idea of Anya?’

  ‘No, darling.’ He seemed quite unaware that he had called her ‘darling’, but to her the word seemed to hang in the air in letters of gold. ‘To try to change your basic idea of the part would be absolutely fatal. Besides, everything about you is natural to the way you play it. You aren’t a strong, primitive, earthy character. You are the appealing “little-girl-lost” type. At least, when you sing, you are,’ he added apologetically as she made a sound of rather disgusted dissent.

  Indeed, she made a movement to draw her hand away, only he turned his and held her fingers strongly.

  ‘Let’s have champagne,’ he exclaimed, and suddenly he shed all his doubts and anxieties and, for the first time since she had known him, looked faintly like Oliver in his unexpected gaiety. ‘This is an occasion, if ever there was one. I know Warrender would have a fit if he knew you and I were already drinking to the fact that the part is yours. But I can’t help knowing that they are all in favour of you. Now I’m in favour of you also. And there is no one else to audition. So let’s drink to your success as Anya—and hang the auditioning formalities.’

  She laughed in purest joy and relief, and in that moment she could have leant across the table and kissed him.

  This was how Oliver had said it might be—if all went well. She need never worry again about Quentin Bannister’s little deception beforehand. His methods—though questionable—had justified themselves. Marc had seen nothing but the finished product—and he was satisfied. Or nearly so.

  As she drank the champagne with Marc, and laughed in her happiness and relief, she found herself almost blurting out the whole secret of why she had shown up so wonderfully at the audition. Indeed, only her promise to the older Bannister kept her silent.

  Later, when she thought it over, she decided it was the champagne which had made her even entertain such a mad idea. For of course, even when—or if—Marc had to know the whole story, he would find it hard to take the fact that his father had interfered in such an arbitrary manner in his affairs.

  ‘I’ll wait until after the first night,’ Gail thought dreamily. ‘I’ll wait until the work has proved itself—and I have proved myself. Then nothing will matter. Nothing but the fact that Marc will know I have helped to make his opera a success. And perhaps he will love me a little for that.’

  This final conclusion came to her only after he had taken her home and, still in a golden haze of happiness, she was reviewing their evening together.

  ‘Do I want him to love me a little?’ she asked herself, standing in front of the mirror and smiling at her own reflection.

  ‘No. I want him to love me a lot!’

  And then she decided that she really had had too much champagne, and she went to bed.

  The next day was Tuesday, and she went to her lesson wondering very much if Quentin Bannister would turn up. And if so, how frank he would be about the result of the auditions.

  Not only did he turn up, but he brought his wife with him, much to Gail’s surprise and a little to Madame Marburger’s annoyance. However, she hid the fact with much tact and graciousness. And, in her turn, Mrs. Bannister stayed quietly in the background until her husband asked frankly for her opinion.

  ‘She’s very good indeed, and a
credit to both of you,’ replied Mrs. Bannister, smiling upon all three of them with splendid impartiality. ‘Is she going to have the part?’

  Madame Marburger drew in her breath slightly at what she regarded as the dropping of a professional brick, for in her view one did not casually bandy about such talk until decisions had been made at top level.

  Quentin Bannister, however, merely laughed indulgently and looked at Gail as though he were Jove about to lean from Olympus and bestow a godlike gift on a mere mortal. He was enjoying the moment to the full, she saw, and she was not at all sure that he had not arranged the whole thing beforehand with his wife. At any rate, she realized, it would never do to steal his thunder by letting him know that Marc had already prepared her. With hardly any effort, she brought a look of breathless expectancy to her face.

  ‘Well, one isn’t supposed to give away secrets of that sort, eh, Madame Marburger?’ Jove’s genial smile took in Gail’s teacher also at that moment. ‘But perhaps there’s no harm in telling you that, so far, no applicant has pleased us all so much.’

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Gail, dropping her glance.

  ‘And there are no others to come,’ he finished with a laugh. Then, as Gail looked up quickly, he added warningly, ‘But on Friday, when Warrender tells you that the part is yours, you will oblige me by looking extremely surprised.’

  ‘Oh, I will, I will!’ Gail promised. Then she came to him and took his outstretched hand. ‘And I can never, never thank you enough, Mr. Bannister, for all you have done for me.’

  ‘It was nothing—nothing,’ he said, not meaning that at all, of course. ‘If you hadn’t been an extremely gifted, hard-working girl I wouldn’t have raised a finger for you.’ And that he did mean. ‘Anyway, I must go now. Don’t stop working just because the goal is in sight. There’s a great deal still between you and final success. The audition is only the first—though perhaps the worst—hurdle.’

  Gail promised earnestly to work as hard as ever. Then Quentin Bannister went away to some meeting he had to attend and Gail, having exchanged a jubilant glance with her teacher and promised to telephone later that day, went out into the street with Mrs. Bannister.

  As they walked together towards Oxford Street, Mrs. Bannister said, ‘I’m very happy about this, Gail. And very grateful to you.’

  ‘Grateful, Mrs. Bannister? Why, the gratitude is all on my side, so far as your family is concerned.’

  ‘No, not entirely. There could have been a great deal of friction and ill-will between Marc and his father over this opera, in certain circumstances. As it is, you seem to have found some sort of compromise which satisfies them both.’

  ‘You were afraid that—that Mr. Bannister might be made to feel hint and slighted?’ Gail ventured.

  ‘That—certainly,’ Mrs. Bannister said, smiling slightly. ‘Like all childlike people, he is curiously defenceless where his self-esteem is concerned. But Marc too, in spite of his rather arrogant air of self-sufficiency, is vulnerable. With him it is almost entirely a matter of his work. His first great triumph was ruined for him by Lena Dorman. Which is why I hate her and wish her ill,’ she added casually.

  ‘Do you?’ said Gail, slightly awed, as many people had been before her, by the way Daisy Bannister could utter quite violent sentiments in that lovely caressing voice of hers.

  ‘Of course. But she is unimportant now. What matters now is that Marc’s joy in his opera should not be clouded. Unexpectedly, he and his father are at one over it, and the family harmony is undisturbed. I am a great believer in harmony in a family.’

  And, on this unexceptionable statement of principle, she lightly kissed Gail’s cheek and parted from her.

  A good deal amused and somewhat intrigued by this further glimpse into the lives of the Bannisters, Gail went on her way—and almost immediately came face to face with Tom Mallender. But a Tom Mallender so wrapped away in his own thoughts that he would have passed her if she had not put out her hand and stopped him.

  ‘Hey, Tom! What are you doing, cutting me dead like that?’

  ‘Gail!’ He kissed her unexpectedly. ‘The very girl! Come and have tea or a drink or something. I must talk to someone. Someone who’ll convince me that I’m walking on real pavements and not on clouds of my own invention.’

  ‘This will do.’ Gail took him by the arm and led him into a coffee bar, where they found a table at the back, away from most of the other people.

  ‘Double whisky,’ he said absently to the girl who came to take their order.

  ‘This is a coffee bar,’ Gail informed him. ‘Bring him a very strong black coffee, and me a reasonably strong white one, please.’ Then she turned to Tom and asked, ‘What has happened?’

  ‘I’ve just had lunch with Reuben Arrowmead.’ Tom looked at her as though he hardly saw her.

  ‘Have you?’ Gail said encouragingly. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Who is he? Where have you been in the last eighteen months, girl? He’s one of the biggest names in the theatre world. He—’

  ‘Oh, you mean J. R. Arrowmead. Why do you call him Reuben?’

  ‘Because that’s what his friends call him.’ Tom smiled beatifically at her. ‘ “Call me Reuben, boy,” he said. “That’s what my friends call me.” I’m a friend—of Reuben Arrowmead.’

  ‘Tom, you’re not drunk, are you?’ Gail regarded him rather anxiously.

  ‘Certainly not! I only had half a glass of Niersteiner with my lunch. I was too busy talking to eat or drink much. Too happy too. If I seem intoxicated it’s just that I’m drunk with success.’

  The black coffee came just then and he gulped half of it down and said, ‘That’s better. I know now that it really did happen. Isn’t it the most glorious, incredible, wonderful thing ever? Haven’t you got anything to say about it?’

  ‘Not until I know what we’re talking about,’ Gail told him patiently. ‘So far, all I know is that you had lunch with J. R. Arrowmead, and that you couldn’t eat or drink much.’

  ‘But I told you!—Or didn’t I tell you? Lord, I don’t really know what I’m doing or saying.’ Tom buried his face in his hands, and his words came out in a sort of muffled rush. ‘It’s happened, Gail! He thinks—Reuben Arrowmead thinks—that a lot of what Noll and I have done is wonderful. That was his word. Wonderful! Two or three things he says won’t do. We’re to make changes, of course, and add various numbers under his direction. But he says we seem to have an almost inexhaustible flow of what people want. And he should know—he should know!’

  ‘Tom, dear, but how marvellous! I can’t believe it!’ She leant over and gave him a kiss of uninhibited joy and congratulation. ‘Do you mean that he’s going to back you or something?’

  ‘He’s going to put on the show.’ Tom raised his head and she saw he was genuinely pale with excitement and his eyes glittered feverishly. ‘Oh, there are all sorts of details to settle yet, of course. He wouldn’t even say which of his theatres he had in mind. Maybe he didn’t know himself. It depends on the length of run of whatever is on at the moment. But, roughly speaking, he is thinking ahead to, say, March or April of next year.’

  ‘I can’t—believe it,’ Gail said again, and she stared back at Tom.

  ‘Nor can I. That’s why I had to tell you about it. I keep on thinking I’ll wake up. This isn’t a dream, is it, Gail? Pinch me, just in case.’

  Smilingly, she gave his arm a smart little nip and he said, ‘Ouch! Well, that’s real enough. Gail, we’re made if the show goes on under his management. Noll and I are made. And you could be too, you silly girl, if you hadn’t turned down our offer,’ he added, sounding now much more like himself.

  ‘I’m so very sorry, but—’

  ‘You want to change your mind? You can, if you like, you know. Noll and I are big-hearted fellows. We wouldn’t hold it against you that you once turned us down. How about it?’

  ‘I can’t, Tom dear. I’m an opera girl. Remember?’

  ‘Opera!’ he retorted on a note of indulg
ent derision. ‘Who wants opera?

  ‘Quite a lot of people, as it happens.’

  ‘And what are the prospects now, may I ask?’ He looked at her with a sort of affectionate scorn.

  ‘I’ve possibly got the lead in Marc Bannister’s new opera. It isn’t quite settled yet, but I’ve every reason to think—’

  ‘You’re backing the wrong Bannister, sweetheart. Take it from me—Oliver is the one who is going to the top.’

  ‘I hope he is. I truly hope so. And I’ll be in the front row on the first night, cheering you both to the echo,’ Gail promised. ‘I know you’re made for success. Both of you. And I’m grateful for your repeated offer. Thank you, dear Tom. But my heart is elsewhere.’

  ‘With Marc Bannister, in fact?’ He glanced at her quizzically.

  ‘With my big operatic chance,’ she retorted quickly. ‘Well, I admire a girl who knows her own mind so thoroughly,’ he conceded with a laugh. ‘Bless you, and may the whole Board of Covent Garden fall flat at your feet.’

  ‘Improbable. But a charming thought.’ Gail laughed in her turn. ‘Where’s Oliver, by the way? Was he at the famous lunch too?’

  ‘Of course. He’s gone home to write the hit number of the show. There are the Bannisters for you! Never let the grass grow under their feet. I’m really on my way home too—’ he glanced at his watch and seemed astonished at what he saw there. ‘I say! I must go.’

  He paid for the coffees and they went out into the crowded street together. He kissed her once more—again without quite realizing that he was doing so, she thought, and bade her good-bye.

  All the way home in the Tube train Gail had difficulty in keeping herself from smiling broadly at everything and everyone. When she was not savouring her own happiness afresh, she was thinking of the impending triumph—or so she hoped—of Oliver and Tom Mallender. It was extraordinary how one could go on for weeks and months, quite happily but with nothing very sensational happening. And then, suddenly—Wham!—the rockets of excitement and joy shot up into the sky, and the golden stars were falling all around one.