The Song of Hartgrove Hall

by Natasha Solomons

  But even that still leaves Sal. I’m terribly fond of Sal. It’s a quieter affection born of familiarity and habit. I like her. I’m grateful to her and I don’t wish to hurt her and that cowardice propels me further into moral stagnation.

  I anticipate my liaisons with Edie as much for the moments after making love as for the act itself. Ordinarily she remains so guarded, but during those minutes or hours as we lie together in damp sheets, staring at the tattered hotel wallpaper in Brighton or Didsbury or Stratford, I find that she will grant me scraps of herself. Perhaps it is simply that she finds talking easier than contemplating the rottenness of what we’re doing.

  I run a finger along the hollow curve of her back. She shivers and reaches for her slip.

  ‘We’d better not. You should go.’

  ‘In a minute. Don’t get dressed yet, darling.’

  She nestles her face into the pillow and allows me to trace the fine down at the base of her spine. She shivers again, but not from desire.

  ‘Are you worrying about the concert tonight? You’ll be splendid,’ I say, lying down beside her, trying to make her face me.

  She gives a wan smile, but she looks drawn.

  ‘I can’t help it. I think I might be sick.’

  She clambers out of bed and vomits in the wastepaper basket.

  ‘It never gets any better.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s jitters? You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  She shakes her head, momentarily stricken. ‘No. It hasn’t happened after all these years with Jack. Or with you. I think I must be barren. Never mind. It’s probably for the best.’

  With that, she’s sick again. I gaze at her, dizzy with love, and think: so this is how our affair has progressed – from making love to watching her stark naked and vomiting into a wastepaper bin.

  ‘Can I get you something? Water? A dry biscuit?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. I’ll be all right after the performance. Talk to me. Distract me. It’s the only thing that helps.’

  ‘Has it always been like this?’

  ‘Talking about stage fright isn’t really a distraction, Harry.’

  ‘Tell me anyway. I want to know.’

  She sighs, resigned. ‘You know that my parents were poor?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There was nothing picturesque about it. We lived in a grubby and nasty little flat near Brick Lane. There’s this idea amongst the English that one doesn’t talk about money. That’s true only if one has it. When one doesn’t have money, that’s simply all one talks about. How we don’t have enough. Where we can get some. What we’d do if we had it. My mother worked in a kosher bakery but it didn’t pay much. My father, well, he dabbled in schemes. I remember one summer he made soap until the flat reeked foully of animal fat and violets, and the walls and floors were constantly sloppy with grease. Eventually my mother put a stop to it. Other times, he cycled around the suburbs with a trailer, buying up tat for a penny, tarting it up somewhat ineffectually and trying to sell it on for twopence. Anyway, it was never enough. We were always fretting about rent and worrying about the coal bill and trying to find out which stores might give us credit.’

  I don’t want to interrupt her, fearful that she’ll stop, so I say nothing while she reaches for her robe, knotting it loosely around her waist. She fumbles in her bag for a packet of gum, which she has taken to chewing in an attempt to give up cigarettes. She settles back on the bed, picking at the chipped crimson nail polish on her toes.

  ‘My parents went out during the day and I stayed at home with my grandmother,’ she says. ‘I adored her. You would have loved her, Fox. She sang and cooked and told me terrifying stories about life in Russia that utterly thrilled me. I dreamed of beetroot and Cossacks. The two always seemed to go together in my mind. I used to sing with her all the old tunes she could remember. One afternoon my father came home early – I must have been nearly six – and found us singing together while doing the laundry. He started to cry—’

  ‘He must have been terribly moved by your voice, darling.’

  ‘No. Not really. He proceeded to shout at my grandmother, swearing and berating her furiously in Yiddish and Russian.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was outraged that she hadn’t told him that I could sing. Here had been his meal ticket all along, sitting idly at home in pigtails, when I could have been out earning. He took me with him that first evening. We traipsed round all the pubs. I’d perch on the bar and sing. We didn’t do too badly but my father was cross, feeling we ought to have done better. The thing was, people were charmed by my youth and littleness, but they didn’t care much for the songs themselves. Yiddish was too foreign and I seemed too much like a gypsy child. Those songs were all I knew, so my father invested in some sheets of popular songs. He shoved them at me and told me to learn them. Of course, I couldn’t read music and didn’t know what to do with them. He was furious when he found out.’

  ‘Did he hurt you, darling?’

  She shrugs. ‘Oh, not too much. I’m sure you were given the strap when you misbehaved.’

  ‘Well, the General never believed in sparing the rod.’

  ‘No, I can’t imagine he did. Neither did my father.’

  ‘How did you learn to read music? Did he teach you?’

  ‘No, he couldn’t read music either. A neighbour taught me. He had been a violinist. I learned quickly; fear is an efficient sharpener of wits.

  ‘Anyway, we did better after that. But I hated it. If I did well, then my father was happy and bought me an iced bun or a pretzel on the way home. If we didn’t, he sulked or raged. I became more and more anxious about performing, dreading every night. It’s better now but it never quite goes away.’

  I hold her tightly to me but she wriggles away. ‘I’m fine. Really I am. You asked, so I told you.’

  ‘I’d like to meet your father, tell him what I think of him.’

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ she says. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, taken aback. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you? I thought you wanted to give him a piece of your mind.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ I’m flummoxed and she laughs, kissing my cheek.

  ‘I’m teasing you, darling. I’m not sad about it. He wasn’t all bad but he wasn’t a happy man.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Still in Brick Lane. I see her occasionally. We’re not close.’

  She starts to dress, then sits back on the bed in her slip, one leg dangling over the edge. She chews on her finger and then glances at me. When she speaks again, her voice is shrill and pleading.

  ‘Do you see now, Fox? Do you see how it was for me when Jack loved me? A man like that?’

  She doesn’t elucidate on what she means by ‘a man like that’ but I understand precisely. Growing up with Jack, I felt rather like one of the shoddy copies of the old master paintings in the great hall, displayed unflatteringly beside the original.

  ‘I’m sure your mother is extremely proud of you,’ I say, wanting to change the subject. I can’t bear talking about Jack. Especially when Edie has just risen from my bed.

  ‘She is. Although she wishes I hadn’t changed my name.’

  I stare at her, bewildered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She laughs. ‘Edie Rose is my stage name, darling. Surely you knew that?’

  ‘No, stupidly, I’d never thought about it. What was your real name then?’

  ‘My surname is Rozanov. I couldn’t possibly have got along as I have with a name like that. Much too Jewish. And foreign. Simply wouldn’t do. If you’re going to sing for the troops, they want to know that your soul is red, white and blue all the way back to bloody King Alfred.’

  ‘Rozanov?’ I say, trying it out like a strange new dish.

  ‘Yes, Rozanov.’


  I stare at her. In that moment I feel as if I don’t know her at all. To my dismay, it has never occurred to me that before she married Jack her name was anything other than ‘Rose’. Rose is the quintessential English surname; a delightful accident, I’ve always thought. Edie was clearly destined to become the forces’ favourite singer, their sweet English Rose. I understand now that it has not been an accident at all, but a careful arrangement.

  ‘And “Edie”?’ I ask her, my mouth dry. ‘You haven’t always been Edie?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘No. My real name is Iskra.’

  ‘Iskra?’

  She nods and smiles. ‘Iskra Rozanov. A pleasure to meet you.’

  She stretches out her hand to shake mine as though it’s a game, and I take it, playing along, but it’s not funny in the least. My lover is a stranger to me.

  The concert goes off well. Despite her fears, Edie’s marvellous. I wonder whether Jack knows about Iskra Rozanov. I suppose he must. It’s her maiden name after all. Thinking about Jack causes my guilt to break out, itching like a rash that has flared up in the heat. I find it hard to concentrate on anything else.

  Marcus offers to let me conduct Edie’s popular wartime songs, knowing perfectly well that I will decline. My love for Edie has not extended to her hits. Instead, I’m given Delius’s On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring. It’s the music of hope and fresh green shoots but all I can think is that the cuckoo is the lying bird, pretending to be something it is not.

  Afterwards, Marcus slaps me roundly on the shoulders. ‘Jolly good show, old thing. Didn’t think you had it in you. You found something in there that I’d not heard before. Clever you.’

  I should be proud, but I’m not.

  Marcus carouses with the string section in the bar. I slip over and join them. Drinking with Marcus and some rowdy violins seems like a good method of forgetting. Marcus has a copy of the vocal score of Messiah and is calling out the orchestration from memory, conducting a ghost orchestra with a fury. He hums the tune loudly and wields a paper straw as a baton.

  ‘Brass!’ he yells. ‘Violas!’

  Each time that he brings in a section correctly, the string players take a drink.

  ‘Oboe solo!’

  ‘No!’ shouts one of the viola players, pointing at the score. ‘You’re a bar early. Drink! Drink!’

  Gamely, after confirming his mistake, Marcus drains his glass.

  I wonder how Handel would feel – his masterpiece as the basis of a drinking game. I feel a hand on my back and, turning, see Sal beside me.

  ‘May I tempt you away?’

  ‘Of course, darling.’

  I order her a ‘gin and it’, and we begin one of our usual discussions about when we will go to America and see her family. The unspoken agreement is that we must be married before we depart.

  ‘I don’t see how it can possibly be before next summer,’ I say. ‘Our touring commitments are absurd. We’re booked up for months and months.’

  ‘We could take a leave of absence. I’m sure Marcus would hire you back afterwards if that’s really what you want.’

  I know she’s right and I’m searching for a reason why it can’t possibly work when I hear Edie calling my name. She rarely speaks to me in front of Sal. We keep a friendly distance. Not too cold – that would be strange – but reserved.

  ‘Fox,’ she calls again.

  I turn around and see her arm in arm with Jack.

  —

  We’re sitting in the bar with a bottle of champagne between the four of us. Jack’s arm is around Edie and mine is draped around Sal. I wish I were drunk. I feel sick. To my surprise, I’m also overwhelmingly glad to see Jack. I have missed him hugely. His feelings are simpler. After an initial hesitation, he embraces me.

  ‘Good God, Fox. It’s bloody good to see you. Do come home. Even just for a visit. It simply isn’t the same without you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. So terribly sorry. I wish that—’

  My apology is heartfelt, but it is for something other than leaving in a hurry and a lack of letters, and I want the relief of saying it aloud. Edie is staring at me, pale and wary, but he’s already forgiven me or believes he has, and cuts me off before I’ve hardly started.

  ‘Never think of it, old chap. Things are different for you now, I can see,’ he says, smiling warmly at Sal. ‘It’s splendid to see you again. You’re looking perfectly charming, Sal. When are you two young things getting married? You must do it at Hartgrove church. Edie and I didn’t, just sloped off to a damned registry office, and I’ve always regretted it. I simply won’t allow you to make the same mistake. We can have a nice party at the Hall afterwards.’

  While Jack gets carried away with the jollity of his plans, Sal’s face is suffused with pleasure and she squeezes my hand. I feel perfectly vile.

  We return home the following week. The roof has collapsed on the Winter Gardens concert hall and while Marcus disappears back to Bournemouth to survey the damage, the four of us retreat to Hartgrove. Jack drives, Edie in the front beside him, his hand resting on her knee. I’m tense with dread. I also want to remove his hand and clout him one, hard, but I keep reminding myself, it’s he who has the right. He’s the cuckold.

  The closer we get, the more despicable I feel. I can hardly bear it and there’s a queer pain in my stomach. I can see Edie’s face in the mirror. Behind the enormous Bette Davis sunglasses she’s pale and a tiny muscle at the corner of her eye is starting to tick. Sal and Jack are oblivious. In their happiness they chatter on and on, hardly seeming to pause for breath. I’m irritated and relieved in equal measure.

  We stop for lunch at a little pub in Somerset, and as we carry glasses of shandy back to the girls, Jack places his hand on my arm, reassuring me.

  ‘Don’t worry, old chap. I know you feel pretty grotty about the whole thing. It will be all right. You know George can’t hold a grudge for long. The General’s already quite forgiven you. He thinks your running off was quite our fault.’

  His kindness, if it’s possible, makes me feel even worse. I can’t look at Edie through lunch. She barely eats, only smokes, sitting as far as she can from me, her face turned away. It’s a perfect June day, the sky a painter’s rich blue, the sun blisteringly hot. Dog roses speckle the hedgerows, while the verges foam with cow parsley, flecked with the bright pink of ragged robin and red campion. High scribbles of birds mark the sky, while a woodpecker rattles on an elm for his lunch, his scarlet plume like a party hat. It’s idyllic and beautiful, and Sal is smiling with delight, and I feel an utter cad.

  Yet as Jack turns along the drive to Hartgrove, even my melancholy lifts. There, at last, is the hill, spotted with sheep, and then the Hall itself, elegant and serene, nestled beneath the ridge. I remember that other homecoming at the end of the war, which seems now so simple and unsullied. I don’t think the house has ever looked more charming than it does today. Wisteria clothes the façade, its leaves softening the stonework, while around the windows white roses unfurl, blowzy and heavy, half obscuring the panes. Peonies droop in the borders like drunken girls in upside-down taffeta dresses. Daisies and yellow buttercups spread thickly across the unkempt lawn, climbing here and there into the flower beds with spurts of yellow. Battalions of foxgloves stand to attention on the fringe of the garden, where, in a deckchair, the General is asleep.

  ‘Hello, Father,’ I say, walking over.

  He starts and then rises, looking pleased and cross at once. He detests being discovered asleep at his post, which he sees as a weakness, implying age and infirmity. I observe that the General, like the house, has gone to seed. There are sagging pouches beneath his eyes, which, although blue as ever, are bloodshot.

  ‘Yes. Good. About time,’ he says, which is as close as he can manage to saying that he too is bloody glad to see me.

  —

&nbs
p; Chivers serves us all drinks on the lawn. He looks so frail that I wonder he can carry the tray. We stand and wait as he edges towards us, glasses rattling horribly, convention forbidding us from helping – he’d view any attempt as a dreadful insult. He greets me with excruciating politeness, indicating that he at least has not forgiven my absence. The gin is warm and there isn’t any ice. Our chit-chat is awkward and subdued. I try not to catch Edie’s eye. She looks perfectly miserable.

  After an age, George appears. He’s in his overalls, and my first thought is that he’s vast. He can’t have grown taller but his shoulders and chest are broad and strong, his arms ridged with muscle. When he shakes my hand, his fingers feel as rough as dried grass. I find that I’m nervous around him; we’re as polite as strangers at a cocktail party.

  We all move to the loggia, half of which has further collapsed so that we huddle at one end, as though on the lone, dry stretch of deck on a sinking ship, carefully ignoring the inevitable. When I slip into the house, desperate to escape for a minute or two, the symptoms of decay are worse. Pieces of plaster have fallen from the ceiling, exposing the horsehair beneath, so that when I look up, the flaking ceilings seem to be suffering from some grotesque skin disease. On the outside, the true state of the Hall has been masked by the cacophony of summer flowers, its dilapidation transmuted into picturesque dishevelment, but once on the inside, I see that it is teetering on the verge of ruin. I can’t imagine how they manage with any comfort during the winter. Then, ruefully, I consider that Edie’s eagerness to come on tour might have been less to do with my charms than those of hot water and a warm bed.