The Song of Hartgrove Hall

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘It isn’t very good, is it?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I agree. ‘But I’m fond of it anyway.’ I retrieve another kipper bone. ‘Did you tell someone I’m here?’

  Sal shrugs, glances away. ‘Only Edie.’

  ‘Did you ask her about the house too?’

  ‘No. I only dropped her a line to tell her that you were here. I didn’t want them all to worry. You ought to have done it yourself. Don’t be cross I told her.’

  I smile, taking her hand. ‘I’m not,’ I say, discovering that it’s true. It must have been Edie who sent the painting. I drift through the morning, cheerful.

  I prop the Not-Constable upon my makeshift desk and gaze at the view from Hartgrove barrow. I pinch one of Mrs Partick’s melodies for my composition and for the first time in months I write. I don’t know whether it’s the proximity of the view of Hartgrove, Mrs Partick’s tune or the emancipating effect of regular sex with Sal that finally liberates me from my block.

  Marcus studies his scores while I write, and I turn my pages over to him so that he can dispense voluminous criticism. He’s relentless, uncomplimentary and, I remonstrate, needlessly cruel. We shout. He mocks and laughs and tells me that if I know so much then I should simply leave. Go back to Hartgrove Hall. And yet, I stay. I know that he’s making me a better composer, and somehow I understand that I can’t leave until the piece is finished. I can’t return without it even though George and Jack will be united in their indifference. They’d much rather I came back with a tractor or fifty pounds or a cow – not a perfectly useless piece of music. But I have to finish nonetheless. I try not to consider what Edie will think of it. I try not to think of her at all.

  ‘No,’ says Marcus, drinking coffee and flicking cigarette ash onto the already criss-crossed page of my manuscript. ‘You play the piano, don’t you?’

  ‘A bit,’ I say.

  ‘Well, either you’re the most brilliant virtuoso or an idiot. I don’t know anyone who could play this. Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know many piano players. Not great ones,’ I say, wounded.

  ‘Well, there aren’t any I know who could play this piffle,’ says Marcus. ‘Albert Shields might. But even he’d struggle.’

  He’s crumpling the pages in his zeal and I resist the impulse to snatch them back.

  He frowns and studies the manuscript again.

  ‘It might work for two pianos. Could you tease out two parts? Make sure they work in counterpoint or it’s pointless.’

  I spend days puzzling and show my efforts with some satisfaction to Marcus who grunts and dismisses them.

  ‘No. Doesn’t work at all. You’re not hearing the instruments distinctly enough. You have an ear for melody, that’s clear. But you don’t understand what each instrument can do, and equally what it can’t do. You need to compose within its range. That way you show off an instrument to its best advantage. You’re like the director of photography of a film whose job it is to make Greta Garbo look absolutely cracking.’

  He has a gramophone brought over on the little fishing boat and we sit around each evening, listening to records again and again, different orchestras and a cornucopia of conductors performing the same piece, Marcus pointing out the subtle variations. Slowly, painfully, I learn to listen better and then to hear better as I write.

  Marcus allows me to study the scores with him. He’s accepted a position as conductor for the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra. I’m frankly baffled that he chose it over the New York Phil.

  ‘Ah,’ says Marcus. ‘You read that piece in The Times? Where I said that I hadn’t yet accepted the New York Phil?’

  ‘Yes, that was the one.’

  Marcus chuckles. ‘“I haven’t yet accepted” as they never actually offered.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I’m sure I read it several times—’

  ‘There were lots of rumours, most of them started by me,’ says Marcus happily. ‘If I suggest myself enough, they’ll realise what a jolly good idea I am. But until they do, I’m going to play nicely with the BSO. They’re pretty damn good. I can make them better.’

  I agree without hesitation. I’m quite certain he can.

  ‘Hello, now I’ve an idea. How about me taking you on as my assistant? I won’t be able to pay you terribly much, but it would be useful for you.’ His tone is casual, but something about the way that he won’t meet my eye makes me wonder whether he’s been rehearsing this for a while.

  ‘Bournemouth’s a little close to home,’ I say, reluctant.

  I can’t see them yet. Not until the piece is finished. Jack or George or the General are all highly unlikely to turn up to a concert. Edie, however, might.

  ‘We’ll be on tour for most of the first year,’ says Marcus. ‘It’ll do you good to see a bit more of the world. And while you’re at it, you can learn to orchestrate properly. No more of that muddy, thick sound you’re currently so enamoured by.’

  I glare at him. It’s typical of Marcus to offer a gift with one hand and an insult with the other. He beams at me, quite oblivious.

  ‘What about Sal?’ I ask, not because I actually feel guilty but because I should.

  He shrugs. ‘Oh, bring her along. I’m sure we can find room for her somewhere.’

  He glances at me shrewdly and then carefully stares out of the window to watch a flock of greylag geese wheeling above the dunes, honking gloriously.

  ‘Are you in love with her, old chap?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I say.

  August 2002

  The school holidays came as a relief. Clara and Ralph no longer had to tear around, taking Katy and Annabel to and from school while shuttling Robin up to London for his piano lessons. The only one who was not thrilled at the respite was Robin. His lessons were reduced to once a fortnight during August, an outrage he could barely endure. As a sop he was allowed to come to the Hall to play the piano as often as he wanted. Consequently, we spent most of the summer together as somewhat unlikely playfellows.

  I was troubled that he appeared to have almost no friends. Flattering as it was, a fellow of seventy-odd is no companion for a six-year-old. Even though I spent much of my time as a boy hankering after music, plotting how I could slope away and bash out a tune on the decrepit piano or listen to a concert on the wireless on the sly, mostly my proclivity was frustrated. Consequently my summers were spent pinching apples, attempting to drown my brothers in the lake, being drowned in turn and, one notable holiday, watching circus elephants bathing in the Stour at dawn. With the benefit of hindsight I concluded that being forced to play outside, listening to cuckoos and larks, and watching for badgers in the dusk, had enriched those boyhood days and I desperately wanted the same for Robin. While the elephants might prove elusive, I was determined that he would experience a boyhood summer of muck and mischief.

  When Robin finished his Schumann sonata and closed his eyes in pleasure, I chose my moment.

  ‘James and Paul are coming round tomorrow for a picnic by the lake. We’re going to fish and Paul’s daddy is going to row us across the lake. If we catch anything, we’re going to cook it for lunch on a bonfire,’ I said.

  ‘What if we don’t catch anything?’

  ‘We’ll draw straws and decide whom to cook instead.’

  ‘You can’t eat people.’

  ‘You certainly can. They had a lovely recipe for braised child with garlic in this month’s Waitrose magazine.’

  At this Robin laughed, which I took as acceptance.

  The following morning we walked through Hartgrove’s once-formal garden, the lawns and herbaceous borders now brimming with geraniums, vast wobble-headed hydrangeas and blowzy poppies, as well as nettles and bindweed. I’m afraid that my interest in keeping the gardens up to their usual standard wavered after Edie. We reached the wilder part of the garden where mown paths sloped down to the lake. Buttercu
ps, dandelions and lady’s smock trembled in the tall, uncut grass, the air thick with the rhythm section of the crickets and the melodic warble of a blackbird.

  We walked in silence for a while until Robin turned to me and asked, ‘You used to have musicians stay here every summer, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we did. For many years.’

  ‘Why did you stop? I would have liked that. Better than boating anyway.’

  ‘You haven’t tried boating, so you don’t know what you think about it yet, Robin,’ I reminded him, sounding prim, even to myself. ‘And I found the festival a bit much after your grandmother passed away.’

  ‘Why? Did she do all the cooking or something?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  I could not explain to him how Edie had been at the heart of it all. She hadn’t sung at the festival for many years but somehow it was her warmth that put everyone at ease. She knew how to calm the nerves of the novice performer and soothe the egos of the distinguished stars unused to the indignities of shared bathrooms and damp bedrooms. Everyone said that while the Hartgrove Festival might not be the smartest nor the most exclusive – we were no Glyndebourne – we had the most character. The character was Edie’s own. The easy friendliness, the charm of home-baked scones, tea bread and our vintage cider in the dressing rooms made up for the antique plumbing and the shared loo along the corridor. It was Edie who saw to all these little touches and a thousand other things. Without her, even if we laid out the scones and provided the cider, the character would be lost. I couldn’t bear to put on the festival and overhear the whispers of how it wasn’t as charming without Edie. Of course it couldn’t be. Nothing could.

  To my relief we were interrupted by the arrival of Paul Bentley and his father, Jon. They grunted their good mornings in the Dorset way, Robin and Paul eyeing each other warily.

  ‘Do you like cars?’ asked Paul at last, producing a blue police car from his pocket. ‘It has a remote control and I can drive it and everything.’

  ‘I don’t like cars,’ said Robin, hunching his shoulders. ‘I like pianos.’

  The two children retreated into silence and stared at one another with bewilderment and regret. I stifled a sigh. As adults, one thrusts children of similar ages together in the belief that they must surely get along, which, I supposed, was terribly unfair. However, I reminded myself sternly, the aim of today was to introduce Robin to children with different interests and attempt to broaden his horizons.

  ‘Well, I think your car looks marvellous, Paul,’ I said. ‘I should very much like a turn driving it later on.’

  Paul smiled but Robin shot me a look of concern and disappointment. I feared it was to be a long morning.

  Soon, young James joined us and we set off with the three boys down to the lake. James and Paul ran ahead, leaping across stones and whacking the heads of dandelions with huge energy so that they shot across the fields like fuzzy cannonballs. Robin watched with interest but remained at my side. For once, I was saddened by my grandson. I wanted him to run and holler like the others. James and Paul were both suntanned and grubby – a reliable signal of a summer well spent – while to my dismay I noticed that Robin was pale and far too clean.

  We reached the edge of the lake. We’d always called it that even though in reality it was midway between a very large pond and a very small lake. It was wide enough to row across and in hot weather a mud island emerged in the middle. Jon pulled out three penknives and solemnly handed one to each boy, showing them how to slice the rods of hazel sprouting along the banks.

  ‘Cut careful, like, don’t cut yerself. I ent got no plasters and I don’t want to drive yer to Dorchester to have yer fingers stitched back on.’

  The boys listened open-mouthed and, to my delight, even Robin seemed happy as he hacked away at a hazel spear. Jon helped them attach lines and flies to their home-made rods and they settled contentedly on the bank at a short distance from us, dangling for fish. Jon carried a cooler with him and as he opened it, passing me a beer, I noticed a bag of fish from Tesco hidden at the bottom. He saw my look and grinned.

  ‘Thought it were best we didn’t trust to finding fish in your big pond.’

  ‘Didn’t you write a book on foraging?’ I asked, trying to remember.

  He chuckled. ‘Aye, that’s right. Eating the Hedgerows and Foraging the Forests.’

  ‘Isn’t this cheating?’

  ‘Not a bit of it. The trick ter successful foraging is knowing when it’s bloody useless. Nothing you’d want ter eat in that muck-hole,’ he said with a dubious glance at the lake.

  It was drowsily warm and I lay back on the grass, feeling the heat of the earth beneath me. The sun crept higher and higher, while gnats spun overhead in frenzied patterns. We sat in silence – Jon, like most Dorset men, had no use for small talk – and listened to the happy chatter of the boys. To my profound relief, I heard Robin’s voice mixing with the others.

  ‘Think it’s about time they caught a fish, don’t you?’ said Jon with a smile, reaching into the grocery bag and unwrapping a large trout from its plastic wrapper.

  He slipped it naked into his jacket and slid noiselessly along the bank, smooth as an otter. A minute later I heard squeals of joy.

  We ate the fish baked in nettles that the boys gathered and on a fire Jon helped them to build. I heard George and Jack in their carousing until I was dizzy with nostalgia. It was the smell of the wet mud mingled with woodsmoke and the pain in my burned fingers. As a boy I could never wait for food to cool, and my sudden greediness as I tore into the trout reminded me of another piece of myself. It was the hottest time of the day and the sun gleamed on the smooth surface of the lake. A petrol-blue kingfisher swooped for his lunch, while the water oozed and trickled around the trailing branches of the willows. It was warm in the shade, and feeling full I fancied an indulgent snooze. Hearing the joyful shouts of Jon and the boys, I allowed myself to drift off for a minute or two.

  I woke suddenly to find Jon shaking me.

  ‘Is he with you?’

  I glanced about, still half asleep. ‘Robin?’

  ‘Yes. He was playing with the others in the boat and then suddenly he wasn’t there.’

  I saw utter panic in the countenance of the other man, and I was instantly wide awake. Everything went quiet and still.

  ‘My God, I hope he isn’t in the lake,’ said Jon, his face white.

  ‘He’s a good swimmer,’ I said, sounding calmer than I felt.

  I noticed the other boys lingering beside the willows, looking frightened.

  ‘I’m going to circle around and look for him again. You go and call for help. We’ll probably ’ave found the rascal before they get here but best be on the safe side.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, relieved to be told what to do.

  I forced myself to run back to the house, my legs abruptly feeble and slow. I heard Jon instructing the other boys, his voice already receding. ‘You two check in the woods just here, don’t go far now, stay together. You got that?’

  Where had Robin disappeared to? I felt light-headed with fear. Oh God, I couldn’t call Clara and tell her I’d lost her son. He had to be all right. He had to be. The scamp had wandered off mid-game and lost his bearings. Clara had lost him in the supermarket when he was two and she’d nearly had a heart attack. This wasn’t any different. But it was. I’d heard about the supermarket story only after Robin had been safely found beside the frozen peas. I started to bargain with him in my head. If I found him in the next ten minutes, then he could play the piano as much as he liked. I’d buy him a damn piano. I found to my horror that I was close to tears. I reached the lawns and, breathless, was forced to slow. It took me a moment to register that, along with the ragged gasp of my own breath, I could actually hear a piano. Chords fluttered across the grass.

  I felt relief roll over me, cool as seawater, but after
a moment or two it warmed into anger. How could he wander off like that? It was selfish and thoughtless behaviour even for a child. My father would have given him a good thrashing and, in that instant, I could see the merits of such a thing. Then, three strides later, my rage dissipated like smoke. I recognised what he was playing.

  I’d never given Robin any of my own work to practise, even avoiding all recordings of my music during our afternoon CD concerts. I hadn’t admitted to myself the reason why. Now I understood. At the age of seventy-four, after a full career and a cuttings folder brimming with reviews – some complimentary, others not – I was worried about rejection. Not the considered rejection of some stranger but the instinctive and gut-felt refusal of a child. I couldn’t bear the prospect of Robin’s casual and simple dislike. Even if, in time, he learned to appreciate my style, my innovation of the old modal forms or the surprising orchestration, I knew that I would never recover from that first, unthinking recoil.

  Then, on that summer’s afternoon, I heard my own music calling to me across the lawn. God, what a child. Nobody had ever understood me as this boy did. He played the piano solo from my Symphony in G minor, The Song of Hartgrove Hall, right out of my own imagination, as though it could not be played any other way. Always I would have to give the soloist a little note here, a tactful suggestion there – but not with Robin. The music reached out across the garden.

  I could hardly breathe. He heard the music as I did. For the first time since Edie died, I no longer felt alone.

  Jon discovered us in the music room three-quarters of an hour later, somewhat surprised that I hadn’t come to tell him that I’d found Robin. Abashed, I apologised and pleaded age and incompetence – the truth was that I’d quite forgotten Robin had been lost. I forgot everything except Robin and the miracle of his playing.