‘There’s plenty of talent here. An abundance.’ She waved her hand airily in the direction of the window.
Her friend looked outside. The lawns, over which the evening sun was setting, were touched with gold. There were two pigeons cooing somewhere. But there did not seem to be any orchestral talent.
Undaunted, La proceeded to speak to the editor of the local paper. He listened to her seriously. These people, he thought, come up with some very odd suggestions, but this was surely one of the oddest. Discreetly, unseen by La, he scribbled on his pad: La’s Orchestra.
2
At least the editor of the paper had the grace to admit that he had been wrong. It turned out that not only was there a great deal of musical talent in the area, but it was talent of a reasonably high level. A number of retired players from great London orchestras offered their services, and many others, some coming from as far away as Cambridge, wanted to play. It was, it seemed, a thin time in the orchestral world, and the possibility of the occasional booking in return for dinner at La’s house and a rail ticket to and from the concert was enough for many musicians. In the manner of a skilled manipulator, La knew how to persuade and encourage, and people found themselves committed to a far greater extent than they had bargained for at the outset.
Most of the players were not professionals, though they were competent amateurs. There were two, indeed, who had spent time studying music at academies, and some who could have done so, had life worked out rather differently for them. Then there was a handful of what were known as the weaker brethren. They, like those of a church congregation who were more likely to falter, were generously watched over by their more talented colleagues. Difficult passages of music were explained, tactfully, and, sometimes, whispered help was given: ‘I’ll do it. Just follow if you can.’
In general, though, this was not necessary, and the orchestra’s performances were, by any standards, good and solid. On the orchestra’s first anniversary, in May 1939, it gave a special concert. La basked in the glory – modestly, of course – inviting a great number of friends and giving a series of parties to mark the event. Nobody minded her celebrating this triumph in the least.
But it was 1939. People asked: ‘What about the orchestra, La? With things as they are … ?’
‘We’ll carry on,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that what we’re meant to do?’
So the orchestra continued during the war, and welcomed the talents of various musicians from the armed forces who were stationed in the area. An American airman livened up the percussion section for a brief and glorious period, and an accomplished Canadian violinist added real distinction to the string section for almost six months.
The orchestra performed concerts for the forces. ‘It’s not much of a contribution,’ said La to a friend. ‘But music makes a bit of a difference, I suppose.’
‘But of course it does,’ came the reply. ‘It all helps.’
She pondered these words. It all helps. She had seen a man moved to tears of emotion at one of the concerts when they had played a piece by the composer Dvorak, and she knew that, yes, it was true. Music helped.
It was round about this time that La’s Orchestra had its finest hour. A conference was being held in a country house. It was all very secret and the members of the orchestra, invited to play one evening to entertain those at this meeting, were taken to the venue without any idea of where it was. When they saw who was in the audience, they knew why.
The VIP was tired, and fell asleep briefly during one of the pieces. But afterwards, when he came to congratulate the conductor and the leader, he smiled and assured them that their presence had been important.
‘Music helps,’ he said. Then he produced a cigar from his pocket, waved to the players, and was gone.
3
La herself could not play an instrument. In the course of her somewhat chaotic education she had learned the basics of music, though, and her father had been good at the cello. He had encouraged her to take up the flute. But for a variety of reasons, this had never happened. The idea that she might one day play had remained unexplored. ‘The flute,’ she said, ‘is the instrument I do not play.’
Her main contribution to the orchestra – apart from acting as secretary, financial backer, venue organiser and tea-maker – was to copy out difficult-to-find parts, by hand. La somehow managed to borrow musical scores, but parts would often be missing and she would go to Cambridge, consult a library and copy the missing part by hand. She would spend hours doing this, her fingers becoming stained with black ink. But her copying of the notes was clear, and people liked to have La’s parts to play from, with each page signed at the bottom: La.
She had the time to do this because she had no job. Of course, during the war years there was plenty for her to do. She drove an ambulance four days a week, releasing its usual driver for other duties, and she also did shifts at a small care centre where wounded servicemen were looked after. But for the rest, it was the orchestra that took up her time and energy.
Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, La would wake up and worry about her orchestra. What would happen if the conductor could no longer conduct? He was getting on a bit, and he had complained about his heart. Conducting was sometimes vigorous work, and she imagined that it might put a strain on the heart. Perhaps this should govern their choice of music in future? Perhaps she should look at musical scores in advance and determine whether they were going to be a little bit too physically demanding?
What would happen if the unthinkable occurred? What if the country were to fall to the Nazis? What would happen to her orchestra? Would everyone be sent away, or just be forbidden to play? What if music were to be banned, to be declared some sort of threat? Her orchestra then might have to go underground, playing secretly in people’s houses, racing through the repertoire in hiding with somebody standing guard outside, ready to give warning.
Such thoughts – ridiculous thoughts – made La turn on the light. Light dispelled such fantasies, such defeatism; light put them in their place. The country would not be overrun; Britain would hold out. It was impossible to imagine defeat, not because one could not imagine what it would be like, but because it was just such an unlikely outcome.
Everyone thought that, she told herself. She knew nobody who thought otherwise. Indeed, one member of the orchestra, a recently recruited Polish exile, had said to her, ‘We will win this, you know. We will.’ He had looked at her as if challenging her to disagree with what he had said. But she did not, of course, and the Pole had then said: ‘You know why we will win? It is because music is on our side.’
4
This Polish exile, who was called Feliks, worked on a farm. He had been wounded, and limped as a result. This made him unfit for the army but fit enough to drive a tractor. He lived in a cottage at the edge of a large arable farm. The farm was owned by an elderly man who was something of a recluse. He saw Feliks once a day, gave him his orders and then disappeared back into the farmhouse.
Like La, Feliks was in his thirties, a quiet man who had lost confidence after his injury. He never spoke about what had happened to him, and La knew better than to pry. There were so many people around to whom terrible things had happened that it was better to wait until they chose to tell you, if they chose.
He had come to one of the concerts, and that was how she had met and recruited him. The concert had been in the hall of a school, and at the interval they had served tea from one of the school’s large urns. La had been serving, along with two other women who helped her with these tasks. She had not noticed Feliks in the queue, but suddenly he was before her, holding out the tuppence that they charged for the tea and a small, rather tasteless biscuit.
She had poured his tea and passed it to him. He had taken the cup and it was then that she noticed his hand was shaking. The cup rattled in its saucer.
He saw her looking at his hand, and the shaking stopped. He moved away, but when La had finished serving tea she looked up and s
aw him standing by himself at the end of the room.
She folded up her apron and went up to him. ‘I haven’t seen you at our concerts before,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘This is the first time.’
He smiled at her as he spoke, and she smiled back. He was a foreigner, obviously, although his English was quite good. She asked him where he was from. He told her.
She thought: I would have said he was French, from the way he looks, but no, that would have been a mistake. The French were more self-confident than this man; he was shy and retiring in his manner.
‘You obviously enjoy music,’ she said.
He reached to put his cup down on a table at the side of the room. Somebody walked past him and bumped him slightly, and he blushed, as if he was embarrassed at being in the way.
‘I do. Yes, I do.’
‘We might play some Chopin again,’ La said. ‘We played a piece by him at the last concert.’
‘That would be very nice.’
She noticed that he shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if in discomfort. Poor man.
Then he said, ‘I play the flute, or I used to. I have not played for a year now. No, it’s longer than that.’
This interested La. She said, ‘You must tell me your name.’
5
La went to Cambridge by train one morning, leaving shortly after ten. It was summer but the day, which had started with sun and warmth, had become rainy. Great grey clouds had built up to the west, and she could see the rain in the distance, over the fields of Suffolk and Cambridgeshire, falling in shifting veils, like curtains. From the window of her train, through drops of rain on the glass, she watched an aeroplane flying in circles, lazily. A woman seated opposite her saw her watching and said: ‘They’ll be training. Just boys, you know. Mere boys. Eighteen, if that.’ She shook her head in what could have been disapproval, or regret; La could not tell.
La said: ‘Thank heavens for them.’
The train continued on its journey. Now Cambridge came into sight – familiar spires; well-worked allotments, every inch given over to growing food; a forest of bicycles at the train station. She had to walk to the shop, and it took her over forty minutes; the rain held off, but it was there, she felt, in the air, not far away.
‘You telephoned me,’ the man said. ‘You’re the person who telephoned?’
She nodded. ‘That was me.’
He was standing behind the counter. He looked past her, through the window. ‘Rain,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Well then,’ he said. ‘The flute.’
He turned round and opened a cabinet behind him. He reached in and took out a narrow, leather-covered box, which he opened. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘It’s a very nice instrument. Would you like to try it?’
He handed her the flute. The metal was cold to the touch. For a moment, she saw herself, fragmented, in the silver. ‘Try it? No, I don’t play, I’m afraid. I’d like to, but I don’t.’
‘So it’s for someone else? A child?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s for a man – a man who used to play but doesn’t have a flute at present.’
‘Then he’ll be very happy with this instrument,’ he said.
She left the shop, carrying the flute in an old shopping bag that the man had given her. It had not taken long to make the purchase – much less time than she had imagined – and this would give her the chance to do more of the things that she had on her list. But first, she wanted to shelter from the light shower which had started. There was a tearoom at the end of the street – that would do.
She took the last free table in the tearoom and ordered tea and a scone. Then she took the flute out of its box and examined it, holding it delicately. He would be surprised, of course, but it would make such a difference to him. She knew the cottage he lived in because she used to drive that way often. It was rather a dark place, she thought, and the farmhouse itself looked a terrible mess, even from the outside. Not a cheerful place to be, even in summer. Having a flute would make it easier for him, much easier.
6
La decided not to warn Feliks that she was bringing him the flute. The evening after she returned from Cambridge, she rode her bicycle out to his cottage. The rain had played itself out, or moved on, and the air was filled with warmth. In the field next to his cottage, cows were standing close to the gate, chewing, gazing vacantly at the road. Flies buzzed at their eyes. They watched as she walked up the narrow path that led to his front door. He could be working, she thought, as there were still hours of light left, in which case she could leave the flute on his doorstep, with a note perhaps. Even if she were not to leave a note, he would know that the flute was destined for him, although he might not guess who had left it there as a gift.
But Feliks was in, and he answered the door almost immediately after her knock. He seemed surprised to see her, and for a moment he stood there, blinking, as if trying to remember who she was.
‘This is for you,’ she said, handing him the leather case.
He took it from her, gingerly. He stared at it, turning the case over in his hands. He looked up at her, somewhat puzzled.
‘Open it,’ she said. ‘Go on. Just open it.’
When he saw the flute, he gasped. ‘This is for me?’
She gave him an encouraging smile. ‘You told me that you played. You said that you didn’t have a flute. Well, now you do.’
He lifted the flute from its case and examined it carefully. ‘It is very fine. Very fine.’ He paused. ‘But I cannot pay. Not yet. Maybe later.’
‘Nonsense. This is a present. Consider it … consider it to be a thank-you present for all the work that you’re doing here. Otherwise this place would be lying fallow.’
He nodded, showing that he understood. Then he lifted the flute to his lips, and without blowing, his fingers moved to a succession of positions. He was quick, light in his touch.
She looked past him through the door, into the room behind. It was sparsely furnished – a table, a single chair, a wireless that Feliks must have got from somewhere. The farmer was mean – or so everybody said – and he did not provide any comfort for this man who worked for him. She frowned.
‘May I play it?’ He tapped the flute. ‘It is so beautiful.’
‘Of course. It’s yours now. Yours to play.’
She listened as he played a tune she did not recognise. His playing was deft; he knew his instrument. She would invite him to join the orchestra; he was clearly good enough. When he had finished playing, she asked him whether he would care to join.
‘Now that you have given me this,’ he said, ‘how could I refuse?’
‘You could not,’ she said. ‘Or rather, you could, but it would be very rude.’
‘In that case,’ he said, smiling, ‘in that case, yes.’
7
The following week, Feliks came for his first orchestral practice. La introduced him to the conductor and to the other flautist, and then went to the back of the hall where she sat during practice. ‘Just ignore me,’ she said, and they usually did. But she watched and listened, and knew the strengths and weaknesses of each player. The bassoonist had a weak sense of timing and occasionally came in too late, or too early, or sometimes not at all. The cellos were good; they never made any mistakes. The brass section had a tendency to be noisy and from time to time had to be asked to keep quiet while the conductor was explaining something. One or two of the violinists were hesitant in their playing, and the conductor would lean towards them in an exaggerated way, a hand cupped to his ear.
During the break, when the players were milling about at the end of the hall, she saw that Feliks was standing by himself, awkwardly alone. She had been talking to one of the brass players, but excused herself and walked over to her protégé. But just before she reached him, one of the violinists, a young woman whom she knew very little about – one of the transient, floating population of wartime – went up to him. La stood quite st
ill. She saw this young woman smiling, sharing a joke with him, and the sight filled her with anxiety.
She pretended to be consulting her notebook, but she was watching. The young woman reached forward and laid a hand on his forearm in a gesture of reassurance, it seemed, or in the way in which one will emphasise a point. He was smiling, she noticed, responding to the young woman; smiling and nodding his head.
La turned away. She felt confused. Why should she be jealous of his conversation with this young woman? He was nothing to her; and yet she had gone to Cambridge to buy him a flute, an expensive present by any standards, and she had found herself strangely excited by the thought of giving the instrument to him. It was as if the gift bound them together in some way, which it should not because she did not want to be bound to anybody, not now.
At the end of the practice, La busied herself with administrative tasks: consulting the conductor about his diary, noting down dates, handing out a musical score. Then suddenly she was aware that Feliks was there, standing close to her, the flute case tucked under his arm. His clothing, she noticed, was poor. He had changed out of his working clothes for the practice, but the collar of his shirt was ill fitting and had been turned inside out to hide its age, she thought.
He looked at her, his gaze fixed on her, serious, almost reproachful.
‘You are cross with me for some reason,’ he said. ‘You pretend not to notice me.’
She looked at him with what was meant to be astonishment. ‘Of course I’m not cross with you.’
He went on. ‘It’s because I was talking to that woman, isn’t it?’
La wanted to turn away. By what right does he imagine that I’m interested in him? she asked herself. Then he said: ‘I was talking about the music we were playing. That’s all.’
She stared at him.
8
He came to her house. It was in the evening, a few days after the practice at which they had had that unsettling conversation. She was in her sitting room, at the back of the house. There were still the last rays of the sun on the trees and the light had that faded, soft quality that one sees, almost feels, on a summer evening. Drowsy – she felt drowsy. The wireless was on, bringing the news from those far-off places, now so familiar, that some people marked on little maps pinned to their walls.
The Cleverness Of Ladies [Quick Reads] Page 5
