Unbidden Melody

by Mary Burchell

  While Dermot Deane consulted his desk diary, Anthea turned enquiringly to Mary, who was almost speechless with surprise and joy.

  “But, Mrs. Warrender!—why me? It’s terribly kind of you even to suggest it, and I can’t imagine anything more wonderful, but—”

  “Well, we shall be talking over quite a lot of profes­sional stuff and Nick—Nicholas Brenner, you know—said you might be willing to take notes and type out schemes for us. And anyway—” suddenly Anthea smiled her heart-warming, brilliant smile—”Nick says you’re a faithful fan of all of us, and that it would probably be a sort of treat for you. Do come. It wouldn’t only be a case of our making use of you, you know. We’d really like to have you.”

  “I can’t tell you—” Mary found her voice was husky with emotion and she had to clear her throat. “I can’t tell you how much I should love it. Or how much I appreciate your thinking of me like that.”

  “It was Nick’s idea really,” Anthea explained. “He says—” her glance rested kindly on Mary—”that you’ve been a great help to him at this difficult time. And those of us who love Nick are grateful to you for that. He thought—I thought too—it would be nice to give you some pleasure in return.—Well, Dermot?”

  “Yes, I can manage it and would like to come,” Mary’s employer said, making a note in his diary, just as though this were an ordinary engagement and not a passport to paradise.

  “Good! Then will you drive Miss Barlow down on Fri­day evening? You will?—Then we’ll expect you both around six.”

  Mary wished her employer would ask if Suzanne Thomas were coming. But he made no such enquiry, merely thanking Anthea for the invitation while Mary added a few fervent phrases of her own. Then Anthea took her departure and for a minute or two Mary sat there, pretending to work, while gratitude swept over her in great warm waves. Gratitude to Anthea for inviting her, but gratitude to Nicholas too for having so ingen­iously arranged that they should spend the weekend to­gether in circumstances no one could scruple to accept.

  And she had actually presumed to think he might be planning some cheap little hole-and-corner weekend trip for her!

  “I wonder if Suzanne is to be one of the party,” said Dermot Deane at that moment.

  “I wondered too, and wished rather that you would ask,” Mary replied frankly. “It would be nicer without her, wouldn’t it?”

  “In my view, yes. But they might think she would be amusing for Brenner,” said her employer. A possibility which appealed so little to Mary that she could find no comment to make upon it.

  He had to go out after that. And, alone in the office, Mary paused to hug herself and exult afresh over the incredible and glorious thing which had happened. Then, on a sudden bold impulse, she picked up the telephone, dialled the Gloria and asked to speak to Nicholas Brenner.

  His voice answered immediately, but not very cordially, and all he said was, “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to thank you! Anthea Warrender came in half an hour ago and invited me—and Mr. Deane, of course—to the weekend party. I can’t believe it!”

  “It’s Anthea you have to thank,” he said, but she knew from his voice that he was smiling.

  “Oh, of course—her too. But she said it was your idea. It’s a wonderful idea. Was that what you had in mind the other evening, when you said you would think of some­thing for next weekend?”

  There was a fractional pause. Then he said, “Not exactly—no, I wasn’t quite clear—what you would like. I only knew we’d had enough of restaurants and taxis. The Warrenders are charming hosts. It seemed a good arrange­ment.”

  “It couldn’t be better,” she assured him.

  “It will make up for the fact that I can’t see you after the performance tomorrow. There’s some sort of recep­tion, and we all have to go. It’s a bore, but one sometimes has to do these things.”

  “I hadn’t thought of seeing you after the performance anyway,” Mary said frankly.

  “You hadn’t?” He sounded amused and a trifle an­noyed. “You do have to be dragged all the way, don’t you?”

  “All the way where?” Mary wanted to know. But be­fore he could—or chose to—answer that, the other office phone rang, and Mary had to cut short the conversation.

  The rest of the week happened to be a very busy time. But even so—and with a recklessness she did not even bother to justify to herself—Mary found time to go shop­ping, and to spend more on a couple of outfits for the weekend party than she would ordinarily have spent in six months.

  She was rewarded by the glance which her employer bestowed on her when he came in late on Friday afternoon to collect her.

  “That’s nice,” he said approvingly. “Eye-catching but in good taste. A difficult combination to achieve.” And Mary felt reasonably well prepared for the weekend, even if Suzanne Thomas should be there.

  She was not there. And, had Mary known it, Anthea Warrender would have considered it a grave error of judgment to invite her under the same roof as Nicholas Brenner. For all her warmth and charm, Anthea was shrewd. And what she did not know about people by in­stinct her cynically wide-awake husband had taught her.

  “It’s really quite a small gathering. Hardly a party at all,” she explained to Mary as she took her up to her beau­tiful room, which looked over the long sloping garden to the river. “Just you and Nick and Dermot, and a couple of very good friends of ours. He’s a composer. You may have heard of him—Marcus Bannister—”

  “Oh, he wrote ‘The Exile’, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And married the girl who sang the leading role.”

  “Well, no,” Anthea smiled. “As a matter of fact he married the girl who didn’t get the leading role. At least, she got it at first. And then she stood down, because that marvellous Polish singer, Erna Spolianska?, turned up. It was she who absolutely made the first night.”

  “I remember now. I was thinking he married her—”

  “Oh, no! She’s a wonderful artist, but not the kind of person you could fit into the Bannister background. The girl he married—a girl called Gail Rostall—is a perfect darling, and very gifted in her own right. In fact—” she stopped. Then she laughed a trifle guiltily and said, “I’m gossiping, I’m afraid.”

  “Please go on. I’m loving it,” Mary assured her, as she stood before the long Venetian mirror, running a comb through her hair.

  “Well, Marc has written a second opera, I think with Gail in mind. Oscar considers it as good as ‘The Exile’ though it’s on very different lines, of course. There’s a very lovely soprano role that I must say I’d like myself—beautifully lyrical, with a gorgeous aria that’s sheer jam for a lyric soprano in the second act. But the work needs an outstanding tenor. And, as I don’t need to tell you, out­standing tenors are always pretty thin on the ground. It needs someone romantic-looking with—”

  “In fact, Nicholas Brenner?”

  “Exactly. So we’ve got a few wheels within wheels this weekend! We’re hoping to interest him. And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have Dermot on our side too. He’s a very shrewd judge, you know, and of course quite influential in musical circles. We shan’t exactly push anything. But if Nick did like the work—and everything else fell into place—it would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would be marvellous.” Mary turned from the mir­ror to cast an approving glance at her hostess. “And the idea of being in at the start of such an enterprise is too thrilling for words. It was good of you to ask me too, Mrs. Warrender.”

  “You seemed the ideal person,” Anthea replied frankly. “Dermot says you’re discretion itself. And Nick said he would come if you came too. Et voila!” she laughed.

  “Nicholas—Mr. Brenner said that?”

  “Yes. I think he showed very good taste,” Anthea added lightly, and Mary wondered just what she was thinking.

  “This mezzo role you were speaking of—” Mary tried to sound as though she were considering it in a com
pletely artistic sense. “It wouldn’t be the kind of role that would interest Suzanne Thomas, for instance? Supposing Gail Bannister didn’t want it, I mean.”

  “She does want it. And Marc wrote it specially for her. In any case, Suzanne wouldn’t do at all. It’s a fine, rather noble sort of role. Suzanne is a splendid artist in her own individual way, but nobility is not her outstanding charac­teristic.”

  Anthea spoke with a calm realism that had no trace of spite in it. And Mary felt so reassured and happy that she was ready to like Gail Bannister on sight.

  Later she found no difficulty in living up to this inten­tion, for the composer and his young wife were friendly, easy people to get on terms with. And the only person of whom Mary remained in some considerable awe was her famous host. Warrender, however, could unbend very charmingly in his own home. And if he took no special notice of Mary, at least he was courteous and agreeable to her when he did take note of her existence.

  The guest for whom she was waiting came last of all, just before dinner. And although, rather naturally, he did not kiss her in front of the others, he gave her a very special smile as he briefly greeted her.

  At dinner, Mary would have been well content to be a listener only as the fascinating professional conversation eddied to and fro around her. But Nicholas drew her in at one point, when audience-reaction was being laughingly discussed.

  “You’d better ask Mary about that,” he said. “She’s a gallery girl. Though, as she claims, one who doesn’t actu­ally scream round the stage door.”

  “She’s not the only one here! I was a gallery girl once, come to that,” declared Anthea with some pride.

  “Were you really?” Mary looked at her and laughed.

  “She certainly was,” said Warrender unexpectedly. “The very first time I ever took her to Covent Garden—in the director’s box, if I remember rightly—she requested me to wave at her friends in the gallery.”

  “And did you?” asked Mary, fascinated by this side­light on the conduct of the mighty.

  “Certainly.”

  “With some reluctance. But he did,” stated Anthea. “I think that was when I fell in love with you, Oscar. It was so nice of you to understand.”

  “You’re completely mistaken. You simply loathed me then, and as good as told me so,” her husband reminded her. “And I wasn’t being ‘nice’. I was showing off, play­ing the great man being gracious. You’ve forgotten.”

  “Aren’t you glad I have the kind of memory which re­cords only the endearing things about you?” Anthea gave him a mischievously sparkling glance.

  “Very,” he said drily. But he looked at her for a mo­ment in a way that did Mary’s romantic heart good.

  “Well, if we’re all boasting of our gallery days, I too was a gallery girl, of course,” remarked Gail Bannister. “And I still like to be up there on a big first night. Were you there on the first night of my husband’s opera ‘The Exile’, Miss Barlow?”

  “I certainly was! Were you?”

  “No. She was in Germany obstinately singing oratorio,” put in her husband. “Just because she felt I ought to have someone else for the leading role.”

  “She was right too,” said Warrender and Dermot Deane in unison.

  And—”I think she probably was right,” said Mary. “I can’t imagine that anyone could have bettered Spolianska.” And then, as she saw the chance come pat to her hand, she turned to Marcus Bannister and added, “You’ll have to write something else very special for your wife, instead.”

  “I have done so—I think.”

  “You have? A new opera, you mean?” She was not un­aware of the approving glint in Anthea’s eyes before she demurely lowered her lashes and looked as though this was not her cue.

  “Yes, a new opera. With a role which I think is exactly right for Gail. And—” he smiled down the table at his hostess—”another one which I hope will interest Anthea.”

  “What about the men?” Mary had no need to simulate interest in that aspect of the work.

  “The best role of all is for the tenor,” stated Gail with­out hesitation. “It requires everything—lyrical singing, dramatic acting and a fine figure of a man.”

  “I hope you recognise yourself, Brenner,” remarked Dermot Deane.

  “Not really,” Nicholas laughed. Then he looked across at the composer. “I take it you’ve brought the manuscript with you?”

  “Of course. One doesn’t modestly leave one’s brain­child at home on an occasion such as this!”

  “In fact—” Nicholas looked round the company and his glance came to rest on Mary—”this is in the nature of a friendly conspiracy?”

  “First thing I’ve heard of it,” said Dermot Deane, dis­claiming any involvement.

  “The rest of us were in it,” Anthea conceded. “Though Mary was a last-minute conspirator. She had to play her part by ear and inspiration. But she certainly brought in the subject of the opera very adroitly.”

  “Because it was close to her heart, I expect,” said Nich­olas. And then, as Mary’s colour rose, he added carelessly, “She is an opera fan par excellence” and her colour ebbed again.

  Immediately after dinner Anthea said if they wanted to see the garden and the view across the river before it was dark, they had better go now. So one or two of them strolled out on to the lawn and down towards the river’s edge. It was an unusually warm night, with a few early stars hanging low in a deep blue sky. And Mary, making no attempt to pair off with anyone—not even her employer—strolled along beside one of the wide flower borders, en­joying the peace of the scented dusk.

  It was only a matter of minutes, however, before she found Nicholas beside her.

  “Well, my little conspirator—” he drew her arm through his—”does this weekend still seem a good idea?”

  “Wonderful!” She smiled, but without looking at him. “But I wasn’t really a conspirator, you know. I heard about the Bannisters’ hopes of interesting you, just after I arrived. And I didn’t see why I shouldn’t introduce the subject of the work for them.”

  “You disappoint me.” He laughed softly. “I hoped you felt you had a personal stake in the game.”

  “How could I?” She glanced up in frank surprise.

  “It’s an English opera and a new work. If I took on the leading role that would mean that I stayed in this country a good deal longer than required by my present commit­ments.”

  “Oh!” She stopped dead, a great wave of excitement and joy engulfing her. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “No?” He bent his head and kissed the side of her cheek. “Well, think of it now.”

  And then Anthea called from the french window, “Nick! We’re going into the studio now. Are you com­ing?”

  They went. Just two of the shadowy figures who con­verged on the house out of the gathering darkness. But Nicholas had her hand in his until they came into the ring of light thrown from the windows. Then he released her hand, but it seemed to her that the warmth of his clasp remained with her.

  To Mary the next hour or two was pure magic. She and her employer—the sole audience—sat at one end of the long studio while the others, with Warrender and Marcus Bannister alternately at the piano, tried over parts of the new work.

  “It’s got quality,” Dermot Deane said once to her. “But then anything with that cast would sound pretty high qual­ity, I reckon.”

  “What a wonderful voice Gail Bannister has.” Mary said that with all sincerity. But something in her told her that she must talk only of Gail and Anthea, otherwise she would be babbling of her love and admiration for Nich­olas.

  He was wonderful, beyond anything she had yet real­ised. For one thing, his use of words was something for her to marvel at Now that he was singing in a language of which she could judge every nuance, she could hear that he used words in the way a great actor does. She mur­mured something about this, in an academic sort of way, to Dermot Deane.

  “Of course, of course,�
�� he agreed. “That’s part of the secret of his superb singing. Any great musical director or teacher will tell you the same thing—’Think of the words, think of the words!’ That’s what helps to colour every musical phrase. I’d like to hear him sing a solo from this work. Anthea says there’s a beautiful tenor aria in the first act.” And as there was a pause from the group round the piano at this moment, he called out, “Can’t we have the tenor solo from the first act?”

  “Do you want me to sight-read it?” Nicholas leant for­ward and took the score from the piano and studied it for a minute or two, humming a little under his breath. “He’s telling her the tale, I gather, Marc? Trying to persuade her that he loves her.”

  “Not quite. More exactly, he’s trying to persuade her that she loves him,” Marc corrected with a smile. “She’s quite unawakened at this moment. He is sure of his feel­ings, but not of hers. That’s why he says—”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve got it.” Nicholas flicked over a page or two. “It seems like a good climax. We’ll try it, shall we?”

  “Do you want some more light?” Anthea asked.

  “No. It’s rather effective with just the candles on the piano,” Nicholas declared.

  “But you can’t see the words,” protested Anthea. “Nor the notes, come to that.”

  “I’ve got the words—here.” He tapped his forehead.

  “You can’t have, in that short space of time!” Anthea was incredulous. “You lucky man! Can you really learn it straight off like that?”

  “Yes. I’ve almost total recall where anything written is concerned,” Nicholas explained. “It’s just a sort of trick, really. I can’t explain it It’s like having perfect pitch, or being able to spot a diamond among the paste. You can either do it or you can’t.”

  “I wish I had the gift!” cried Anthea and Gail in chorus.

  “You have other gifts,” Nicholas told them, smiling. “Are you ready, Bannister? What is he doing at this point, by the way?”

  “Leaning against the wall of the orchard, watching her as she looks from the window into the night.”