Wives & Mothers

by Jeanne Whitmee

  ‘Certainly.’ She removed her scuffed denim jacket. Underneath, she wore faded jeans and a plain white tee shirt. Her figure was slender, almost as straight as a boy’s, but her arms were sinuous; the hands strong with long sensitive fingers. She took the violin and bow from its case, walked purposefully up the steps on to the stage and passed Harry her music. Then she tucked the instrument under her chin and tightened her bow.

  ‘I’ll take it from there to there,’ she said to Harry, pointing with her bow to the numbers on the page. He was impressed by her cool manner — and her choice; part of the second movement of the Brahms concerto. That took nerve. He smiled and gave her an A on the piano, wishing it could have been truer. She tuned her instrument briefly, then, bow poised, nodded her readiness.

  Harry had heard more than a dozen violinists that morning. He had heard those whose technique was more accomplished, those who had more polish and control. But this girl had something that all the others lacked. She had style and inspiration. Her playing had a life and a spirit he had heard only rarely. She loved her music and her instrument and it showed. Her compellingly blue eyes shining and her strong young face rapt, she brought something of her own character to the music. She drew light and shade from the piece; brought out all the fire, the colour, the very soul of the music. She made all the other violinists he had heard that morning sound mechanical and dull.

  The audition piece that Max had set was designed to show up all the candidates’ weaknesses, but it gave her no problems. Her sight reading was faultless and she tackled the tricky harmonics and double stopping with a panache that had Harry hiding a smile of triumph. As they came to the end of the piece he felt a little thrill of pleasure. If Max Crichton had any sense at all he would snap this girl up. She was a find, the best they had heard today — the best in months. He glanced across at the conductor’s face. It wore the enigmatic expression Harry knew so well; the one he adopted when he didn't want to give away his true feelings.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Kingston,’ he said brusquely, getting to his feet. She watched expectantly as he turned to the other candidates. ‘And thank you everyone. You’ll all be hearing from me quite soon. Thank you all very much for attending.’

  They began to drift away in ones and twos, but Harry noticed that the girl remained on stage, in no hurry to put away her violin. He caught her eye and they smiled at each other.

  ‘Have you come far, Miss — er...’

  ‘Tricia,’ she said with a sudden disarming grin. ‘No. I share a flat in Chelsea — well, Fulham really — with a friend who’s a drama student. My real home is in East Anglia.’

  ‘A nice part of the world. You’re lucky.’

  ‘I don’t go there very often. Do you know it?’

  ‘Not well. But I have been there — once.’

  She glanced round and noted with satisfaction that all the other candidates had gone. Tossing back the straight blonde hair that hung to her shoulders, she looked straight at Max. ‘Well, Mr Crichton, how did I do?’

  He was clearly taken aback and Harry watched his reaction with amusement. Max Crichton was used to being treated with awe and reverence by young musicians, especially the female ones. This girl’s naive, slightly brash approach clearly threw him.

  ‘Surely you heard what I said — I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Oh. But can’t you give me some idea?’

  Max turned on her with the blistering stare he reserved for those who overstepped the mark. ‘I didn’t comment on the other performances I heard this morning. What makes you think that I should make an exception in your case?’ He raised an arrogant eyebrow at her in a way that usually reduced young musicians to a pile of ashes. ‘You couldn’t even manage to get yourself here on time.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault,’ she said indignantly. ‘I told you, there was a strike on the Underground.’

  ‘Then you should have caught a bus.’ Max picked up his blouson and threw it carelessly over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ Already he was walking away.

  ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you’ she muttered under her breath, putting a defiant face behind his back, but Harry thought he detected a slight quiver in her voice. She wasn’t quite as tough as she would like people to think. He watched, noting the droop of her shoulders as she carefully put away her instrument and pulled on the denim jacket. Pulling her silky, child-like hair free of its collar, she suddenly looked very young and vulnerable.

  ‘I’m going for a coffee. Would you like one?’ he asked her impulsively.

  She looked up at him with the sunny smile of a twelve-year-old. ‘Oh, yes please.’

  ‘Good.’ Harry closed the piano and began to replace the dust cover. She put down her violin case and moved to give him a hand. ‘There’s a McDonald’s just across the road,’ he told her. ‘And I don’t know about you but I could murder a Big Mac too.’

  It was too early for the lunchtime rush and Tricia found them a table in a quiet corner while Harry collected coffee and burgers and brought them across. He found her looking pensive.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked as he unloaded the tray.

  Her shoulders drooped. ‘I blew it, didn’t I? It isn’t professional to ask. I knew that, but I’ve wanted to play with the New World ever since I first started at the Guildhall. It means a lot to me.’

  ‘You don’t look old enough to have completed a course at the Guildhall,’ he told her.

  ‘I’m not. I’m nineteen. I dropped out in the middle of my second year. I didn’t like all the rules, and frankly I didn’t feel I was learning much. Besides, they didn’t approve of my playing with a jazz group in my spare time.’

  He laughed. ‘No. I don’t suppose they would.’

  She stirred her coffee reflectively. ‘It was so bigotted and stupid. Other people did jobs to augment their grants. It was no different really.’ She grinned her sudden, impish grin. ‘And a damned sight more fun than waitressing in some grotty restaurant and getting my bum pinched black and blue by foreign tourists.’

  Harry laughed. ‘You play jazz violin then?’

  ‘No. Tenor sax,’ she said, taking a bite of her burger. ‘With a group that plays in a little club in Greek Street. I love it. They say girls don’t have enough wind to be really good, but I reckon I’m as good as most. It pays the rent okay, but the violin’s my real love.’

  ‘I could certainly tell that.’

  ‘Could you?’ She leaned forward eagerly. ‘What do you think my chances are, Mr...’

  ‘Harry — just call me Harry. I thought you were good — very good.’

  ‘Did you really?’

  ‘Yes. But that’s only my opinion, mind. It’s Crichton’s that matters.’

  Her smile vanished and she nodded. ‘No doubt he thought I was pushy and rude.’

  ‘Well, you need plenty of push to get on nowadays. No good hiding your light — waiting around to be discovered. You’ve got to get out there and sock it to’em.’ He smiled. ‘But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. How long have you been playing?’

  ‘About as long as I can remember,’ she told him. ‘My mother always regretted not taking up music herself, so she got me at it at an early age.’

  ‘Good for her. What about your father — is he musical?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not at all. He was a headmaster till he was badly injured in an accident. He’s paraplegic now. In a wheelchair.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry. That must make life tough for your mother.’

  She shrugged. ‘It did at first. She and a friend run a complete wedding service called “Happy Ever After”. They’d only just started it at the time and at first she thought she’d have to give it up. But luckily my grandmother stepped in and helped out till she was able to get organised. My mother designs these glamorous wedding gowns and her friend does the catering. They’ve done really well — opened several branches in other towns now.’

  Harry smiled. ‘You must be very proud of her.’

>   ‘Oh, I am.’ Tricia stirred her coffee thoughtfully. ‘The only thing is, she doesn’t seem to have much time for...’

  ‘For you?’

  She looked up at him. ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Is that why you live in London?’

  ‘Partly, but not just that. Somehow I’ve never really felt I fitted in at home. Maybe it’s because I went away to boarding school when I was seven. Then on to the Guildhall.’ She pushed the silky hair behind her ears. ‘It isn’t their fault. What with Dad’s accident and Mum’s work, they haven’t had much time to spare for me. I go home at Christmas and every now and again for a weekend, but...’ She shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

  He nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘What about you?’ she asked, looking up at him with her level blue gaze. ‘Do you have a family?’

  ‘No. There’s just me.’

  ‘Oh. Don’t you mind that?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ He smiled at her. ‘But I’m lucky. I enjoy my work.’

  She regarded him. He was really quite old — sixty or more. People of his age had usually retired. ‘Do you do this all the time,’ she asked. ‘Play for auditions?’

  ‘I do a bit of everything; accompanying, deputising — you know. I’m freelance — my own boss.’ He laughed. ‘Have fingers — will travel, weddings and barmitzvah’s a speciality.’

  She laughed with him. ‘Sounds like fun. So where do you find all these interesting jobs?’

  ‘My agent. I’m with Joan Sefton in Old Bond Street. I’ve been with her a long time now and she knows the kind of jobs I like.’

  ‘I see. So what do you think my chances are, Harry?’

  ‘Pretty good, I’d say. But you’ll just have to wait patiently. It’s a pity you ducked out of college.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose that’ll be a black mark against me,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘What’s he really like, Max C? He looks as though he could be a bit of a pain to work for.’

  ‘He’s tough, but he’s a good conductor; he knows what he wants and how to get it — with or without making friends along the way. I can promise you one thing — working for Max wouldn’t be dull. But underneath it all he’s a nice guy.’

  She smiled wistfully. ‘He sounds fantastic. Bet I never have the luck to land a job with him though. How old is he? It’s hard to guess under all that hair.’

  Harry laughed. ‘Well, all members of the NW have to be under thirty,’ he told her. ‘And that includes the conductor.’

  He had already decided that he’d have a word with Max himself on her behalf if he got the chance. He’d taken a real shine to Patricia Kingston and he reckoned she deserved a chance to show what she could do.

  *

  His chance to speak up for Tricia presented itself sooner than he’d imagined. He was working at the BBC two days later when he ran into Max in the canteen. They were both alone and automatically shared a table for lunch. Max had been recording a concert. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up above the elbow. His hair was rumpled where he had carelessly pulled off his headphones and he looked more like a lumberjack than an orchestral conductor.

  Harry asked him: ‘What did you think of the batch of young violinists we auditioned the day before yesterday?’

  ‘Nothing special,’ Max said. ‘I suppose I might fill the two vacancies in the second violin section. But what I really want is a good leader. Donald Latimer is leaving at the end of the year.’

  ‘How about the blonde girl — the one who came late?’ Harry asked. ‘I thought she had talent.’

  Max’s eyes flickered with interest for a moment, but he shook his head. ‘Talent, yes, but too much fire. No discipline.’

  Harry grinned. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t find that a problem. Surely you could soon lick her into shape?’

  ‘I’m not looking for the kind of leader I have to lick into shape. I want one who’ll take all that kind of thing off my shoulders for me.’

  ‘Yes, I see your point,’ Harry said thoughtfully. ‘So why not promote someone and give Miss Kingston a try out in the seconds.’ Max frowned. ‘It’s just this feeling I have about her. She seems like trouble to me. Too damned confident.’

  ‘That’s just bravado,’ Harry said. ‘Look, I took her for a coffee after the auditions. She’s just an insecure kid like we all were once. But she’s got guts and determination, and she’s got her heart set on working with the NWYO. If you don’t give her a job, someone else will. And I have this gut feeling about her. Something tells me she’s going to make a name for herself.’ He said no more. What Tricia Kingston had told him about her background and her penchant for jazz playing was confidential. If she wanted anyone else to know it was up to her to tell them.

  Max was looking at him curiously. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so enthusiastic, Harry.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s just a hunch. As I said: a gut feeling. I may not have made much of a career for myself, but I’ve been in the business a hell of a long time and I think I can spot a natural.’

  But Max still looked doubtful. ‘I can’t see her taking kindly to the discipline of playing with an orchestra,’ he said. ‘I may be wrong but she seemed to have too much individuality.’

  ‘She’s soloist material, you mean?’

  Max pulled a face. ‘That’s what she thinks, no doubt. Miss Kingston has a lot to learn first though. And I’m not sure I want the hassle of teaching her.’

  Harry was thoughtful. There was a lot in what Max said. The girl had walked out on her course. She was certainly a rebel. And for all her innocent openness, she promised to be as stubborn and uncompromising as Max when it came to getting her own way.

  The conductor was looking at him with a hint of amusement in his dark eyes ‘But you think I should give the girl a chance, don’t you?’

  Harry decided to put his money where his mouth was. ‘Yes, I do.’

  Max chuckled. ‘Okay. If I find I can’t handle her, I’ll send for you, shall I?’

  ‘Handle her — you?’ Harry looked at the large young man sitting opposite. With his powerful personality and dark good looks he exuded authority despite his lack of years. Harry had seen strong men quail before the force of his biting sarcasm. Yet here he was, unsure of whether he could handle a slip of a teenage girl. Patricia Kingston must have even more charisma than he had given her credit for.

  *

  When Paul first came home from the rehabilitation centre he had been paralysed from the waist down and had no use of his right arm. As result of the slight brain damage he had sustained, his speech was also impaired.

  At first Elaine had been able to do little more than look after his basic needs. As the months went by the ground floor of Langmere Lodge had been adapted for his use and she had learned all the necessary nursing skills from the resident nurse who came for the first few weeks of his homecoming. If she had not been so desperately busy she would have been deeply unhappy. But at the end of each day she had been so exhausted that sleep had overtaken her almost before she’d had time to fall into bed. Thoughts of Patrick were never out of her mind. Letting him go had been the hardest and most painful thing she had ever had to do. Thinking of him, and of their brief, ecstatic time together in Switzerland, hurt unbearably and the hurt grew no less as the months passed. The only way to get through the pain was work. Fortunately there was no shortage of that.

  As time passed things gradually improved. With physio and speech therapy Paul regained the partial use of his arm and his speech improved, so that at least the frustration of not being able to communicate his needs was eased and his temper improved.

  At ‘Happy Ever After’ Grace stepped in to fill the breach, falling naturally into the job as though it had been made for her. Elaine was obliged to watch with a mixture of feelings as the business she and Alison had started with such enthusiasm, gathered momentum and went from strength to strength without her.

  Gradually, little by little, they were able to expand
and employ more staff. Alison’s catering became popular and with the help of her mother and a young helper she catered for other functions besides weddings, to help swell the business’s finances.

  A year passed, then another, and things grew a little easier for Elaine at home. She found she was able to design exclusive dresses for HEA again. Now they could afford outworkers for the making up. Generally she worked late at night, when Paul had gone to bed. It was wonderful therapy for her; an oasis in her endless round of caring for a man whose every word and look accused and reproached her; who deeply resented his helplessness and reliance on her. He blamed himself relentlessly every day of his life for not succeeding in his attempt to end his life that day in the car. The only good thing about it was that his mother remembered nothing of what had happened on that terrible afternoon.

  Mary had volunteered to move into a private home for the elderly soon after Paul’s accident, though the reason had never been altogether clear to Elaine. She came to visit her son once a week, but the two would sit together over tea and biscuits, hardly saying a word to each other. Sometimes Elaine wondered why she came at all. She often asked herself just what had happened that day. But Mary doggedly insisted that she remembered nothing.

  An added difficulty for Elaine was that Paul was always extra fractious and agitated when Tricia was in the house. And although Elaine longed to see more of her daughter, she had to admit that the girl’s presence only made life harder for everyone. It was clearly no fun for her either. In trying to explain to her, Elaine blamed Paul’s attitude on his illness, but she guessed that he saw in the girl the root cause of all his misfortune.

  *

  Four years after its initiation, ‘Happy Ever After’ had become a registered company with a board of directors that included Grace and Morgan, who had put up the money for their expansion. ‘You filled a gap in the market at the right time,’ he told them. ‘You deserve to succeed. I’ll back you all the way.’ With his help three provincial branches had been successfully launched and were flourishing. Elaine allowed her mother to persuade her to employ a full-time nurse for Paul so that she could go back into the business.