Choral Society

by Prue Leith

  Then Bryn Jones took over. He started by organising the singers, separating the tenors from the basses, the sopranos from the altos. He asked everyone to stand and got them singing single notes, louder and louder: mmmaaaa, mmmaaa; then humming up and down the scales and doing breathing and relaxing exercises.

  Lucy was faintly irritated. Warming up was good, but this seemed to be going on for ever. But she did as she was told, largely because Bryn’s eyes roved constantly over the group. He had undoubted authority and she did not want to cross him.

  She was relieved when Bryn eventually said, ‘Right, now for the Messiah. Please sit down. I know you have rehearsed all the choruses, and we’ll rehearse them a good few more times. But now I’d like you to sing the first chorus, “And the glory of the Lord” without your scores. Please put them under your chairs. You should all know the music by now, and I hope the words too. God knows there are few enough words.’

  Lucy, among the altos, made a face across the room at Joanna, in the soprano section. Apart from the fixed rehearsals for the group and the few they’d had at Pencarrick, Lucy had not done as instructed and listened to a CD, never mind done any practising.

  Joanna smiled back. Lucy thought, I bet she’s learnt every note and every word, she’s so damned efficient. Lucy wondered if Joanna’s throat would constrict and prevent her singing. Lately she’d been singing with the group with no anxiety at all. But an extra fifteen strange men could undo all that.

  Lucy at first found Bryn’s methods maddening. They took tiny passages and rehearsed them over and over again. And Bryn barked at them constantly: ‘Sopranos, wake up, put some heat in it … tenors, slow down, it’s not a race … Piano means softly – not dull and dreary. Don’t let it lose life … basses, this is not a Bavarian drinking-hall song … altos, can you nasty it up a bit? It’s too sweet now.’

  Once or twice Bryn would let them sing more than a few bars before going back, and Lucy would begin to enjoy it. But it never lasted. Like coitus interruptus.

  When there were only twenty minutes left, Bryn told them to stand. They were to sing the Hallelujah chorus and the Amen right through without interruption.

  They didn’t quite manage it, because the tenors were drowning the rest, and Bryn, who hopped about on the balls of his feet and frequently jumped right off the ground, suddenly stood still in the middle of a thumping hallelujah, his baton raised.

  ‘No, no, too slow now. And sopranos, don’t get sucked in by the tenors. Listen to your neighbours, not to those louts over there.’ He smiled at the tenors, who grinned back. ‘And tenors, cool it a bit please. You are hogging the show.’

  When the last Amen was sung, Lucy felt wonderful. Looking round the room she could see that everyone felt the same, uplifted and satisfied. Joanna was flushed and beaming, whatever was up with Stewart obviously forgotten. She caught Lucy’s eye and gave her a thumbs up. Lucy signalled congratulations by silently clapping her hands.

  Bryn said, ‘Well done everyone. Not one hundred per cent but we’re getting there. With a few more rehearsals with me nagging the life out of you, you’ll be singing like pros. Better maybe, amateur voices often have more vitality and joy in them than jaded musicians who have sung the Messiah a hundred times. And you are talented amateurs.’

  Lucy felt childishly grateful for this. After an hour and a half of Bryn’s hectoring and criticism, his praise was balm. But he wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘The bad news is that you are making mistakes. Old mistakes tend to come up at concerts, so please, learn the score! Then we can concentrate on pace and expression. Remember we have no rehearsal with the professionals so you need to be spot-on. If you cannot rehearse with another singer, then download a midi-file, and sing along until you know every word and every note. Until next week then, thank you. And goodnight.’

  Joanna came hurrying over to her, eager to say something.

  ‘Lucy, it’s only nine. Let’s get Rebecca to join us. Will you call her? She’s bound to be more upset with me.’

  Lucy’s first instinct was to object. She wanted to discuss her Pencarrick plan with Joanna, and she wanted to hear what was up with Stewart. But then she thought, why not?

  Lucy fished out her mobile phone. She scrolled down to Rebecca and pressed Call. Almost at once Rebecca answered.

  ‘Rebecca, it’s Lucy. Or rather both of us, Joanna and Lucy. We’re going to the Notting Hill Brasserie. Why not join us? Have you had supper?’

  ‘I thought you’d both decided I wasn’t to darken your doors again.’

  Lucy grimaced pain to Joanna, but replied lightly, ‘We miss you, Becca. Please come.’

  Lucy and Joanna walked the ten minutes to the restaurant, and were surprised to find Rebecca already there, just stepping from a cab.

  There was an awkward few seconds while Rebecca paid the driver, and then Lucy stepped forward and put both arms round her. She felt skinny under the thin cotton coat.

  Rebecca, stiff and unresponsive at first, suddenly gave in and hugged her back. As Lucy released her, she stood back, looking at Joanna.

  ‘Am I forgiven?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, Becca,’ exclaimed Joanna, taking both her hands, ‘of course you are, but have you forgiven me? I seriously overreacted. I don’t know why I got the whole thing so out of proportion. I’m sorry. Really sorry.’

  Rebecca, whose eyes were full of tears, ran the back of her knuckles under them, and said, ‘The problem is, I’d probably do it again. Though I would try harder not to. I do see it’s not exactly the way to behave!’ She suddenly grinned and added, ‘But I’m not likely to get another chance with a squad of nineteen-year-olds, am I?’

  They walked down the cobbled alley to the restaurant, and Rebecca shrugged out of her coat. She was wearing a green velvet miniskirt, with a tight sequined top, green tights and flat, buttoned, little-girl shoes. Her hair was fashionably bedraggled and her face was made up with a good deal of glitter round her eyes and cheekbones. She looks, thought Lucy, like a waif who has been at the dressing-up box. A rather elderly waif, it’s true, but still very much younger than she was.

  ‘Rebecca, you’re all dressed up, you were on your way out!’

  ‘No, it’s fine, I’m going to that new ballroom club in Chelsea. But it goes on most of the night. I wasn’t planning on being there until eleven or so. You caught me filling in time deciding what to wear.’

  Lucy did her best to hide her disapproval. What was a fifty-something woman doing wearing teenage clothes and going dancing with strangers? Rebecca was incorrigible.

  When they were seated, and had food and drink in front of them, Lucy said, ‘Becca, you’ve lost weight. And you’re so pale. Are you OK?’

  Rebecca took a sip of her wine. ‘I’m fine. Indeed very fine. I’ve a new fella, and I’ve discovered the joys of botox!’

  ‘Oh, no!’This time Lucy could not keep the censure from her voice, but Rebecca just laughed.

  ‘Lucy, Lucy, which do you disapprove of most, the fella or the botox?’

  Joanna chipped in, ‘We can’t disapprove of the fella till we know something about him, but I’d certainly worry about the botox.’

  Rebecca patted Joanna’s arm. ‘Don’t worry. I’m very careful. The woman who does it for me is a Harley Street dentist, and very skilful. No Donald Duck lips or wooden forehead. Look!’ She held her face up for examination, and Lucy had to admit her skin looked good. ‘I’ll introduce you. You’ll lose ten years. Joanna, Stewart will find you even more irresistible, and Lucy, that Joshua will follow you around like a spaniel.’

  Both Lucy and Joanna shook their heads. Lucy resolved to tackle Rebecca on the botox question another time.

  ‘What about the new man then?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, he’s fine,’ said Rebecca. ‘Bit boring. Rich though, and takes me to lots of clubs and restaurants and stuff. He’s at a business dinner tonight so I’m off the leash.’

  ‘But who is he?’ asked Joanna at the same time as Lucy s
aid, ‘Rebecca, if he’s that unsatisfactory, what on earth are you doing With him?’

  Rebecca, smiling broadly, answered them both.

  ‘He’s called Jean-Pierre. Works for a French bank. Married. Lives in Paris. Says he loves his wife, but he only goes home at weekends so I fill a gap. Suits me fine. He’ll do until the real thing comes along.’ She laughed. ‘I could set up a shop with all the perfume he buys at the airport.’

  Lucy felt a stab of sympathy mixed with admiration. Rebecca was endlessly cheerful, but it was sad. She caught Joanna’s look, which echoed her reaction.

  Joanna said, ‘You’re fantastic, Rebecca. I wish I could take things so lightly.’

  Lucy looked at Joanna.

  ‘Your turn, Jo,’ she said. ‘You sounded unhappy about Stewart. Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do, if I can do it without blubbing.’

  She put down her knife and fork and frowned in concentration. She explained about ousting Caroline, and the drama over the supposed overdose, and that Stewart had taken Caroline to Switzerland and barely exchanged a word with her since then.

  ‘Poor Caroline. She drives me nuts but I do feel for her. And poor Stewart, having to choose between his daughter and his lover.’

  ‘Poor you, more like,’ Rebecca said. ‘Men are such cowards! They are just not up to rocking the boat, are they?’

  ‘The sad thing is that if he’d stayed you could have helped each other, and both helped Caroline,’ said Lucy. ‘Now he probably resents you because he wasn’t there and you took the load.’

  ‘But why wasn’t he there?’ asked Rebecca. ‘He must have known how she’d feel. Why go to London?’

  ‘Caroline had a tantrum and told him to get out of her life,’ replied Joanna, ‘said she hated him and so on. I think he was either running away from melodrama or angry enough to take her at her word.’

  Lucy watched Joanna tearing a piece of bread into tiny pieces, laying them neatly in a row round the edge of her plate. ‘Isn’t he speaking to you at all?’ she asked. ‘How are you running the business, and finding a replacement for Caroline?’

  ‘He texts or emails and leaves messages. He and Caroline came back to Wakefield after a few days, but he never speaks to me. Neither does she. Once, late at night I answered the phone and he just hung up, then texted me. He obviously thought I’d be asleep and he could leave a message. Otherwise, nothing.’

  Joanna was determined to be brisk and dry-eyed through this conversation – she had cried too much lately – but she was finding it hard. Her voice was unsteady as she said, ‘I really thought he loved me. That he would go on loving me.’

  Lucy watched Joanna struggling for control as she told her story. She longed to reach out and comfort her, but she knew if she did that Joanna might weep, something she’d hate doing, even with her and Rebecca.

  Joanna looked from Rebecca to Lucy, her face rigid with the effort at control. ‘The trouble is,’ she said, ‘I really love the … the bugger.’

  Her mouth quivered and she bit her lip. She remained staring at Lucy for a second then dropped her head back to look at the ceiling, her jaw clenched.

  Lucy said, ‘Oh, Jo, I am so sorry. Men are such complete fools.’

  Rebecca picked up a napkin and handed it to Jo, who buried her face briefly in it, then raised her head and sniffed. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice once more strong and steady. ‘At least I’ve hired a good replacement for Caroline, her cousin Alasdair, and the business is back on track. I will sell out as soon as I can. Indeed, I guess Stewart will want me out as soon as my contract is up. Then I’ll have more time for Pencarrick – at least that’s going well.’

  Lucy, grateful for the chance to talk about Pencarrick, took a gulp of wine.

  ‘Joanna, I’ve been thinking a lot about Pencarrick. In fact it was Pencarrick I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Really?’ Joanna looked at Lucy and then at Rebecca, frowning in surprise.

  Nothing for it, thought Lucy. Better plunge in.

  ‘Joanna, how about you and I buy Pencarrick?’

  Lucy, excited but determined to remain cool, outlined her plan for selling up and living permanently at Pencarrick, with Joanna the executive partner who ran the business.

  ‘The thing is, Joanna, I know your plan is for an expensive spa, and to take the whole thing very much upmarket, but I’d not want to do that. It would spoil the atmosphere. Of course the house needs refurbishing, I see that, but does it need a Michelin star dining-room and a spa? Couldn’t it be made to pay at a more friendly level? I so love the feel of the place, of a comfortable home where you help yourself to drinks in the bar, where the library is full of good books, where you can walk around barefoot in your bathers, where you can go for a sail, or a ride, or wander into the kitchen for a midnight snack as if it was your own. Would people not pay for that?’

  She was desperate for Joanna to agree, to approve, and to be excited by the concept. She held her breath, expecting to be told it would never work. Her eyes were on Joanna when Rebecca spoke.

  ‘Wow, Lucy, you don’t half move fast! Is Joshua behind this?’

  Lucy shook her head, faintly irritated. It was typical of Rebecca to think a man was in the mix.

  ‘Not at all. Joshua has nothing to do with this. In fact he doesn’t know a thing about it.’

  ‘But Lucy,’ protested Rebecca, ‘you can’t moulder away in the country. You’d the of boredom talking about sailing and rhododendrons.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘London doesn’t have a monopoly of interesting people! And I can write there. And I no longer hanker for a staff job on a newspaper – I can freelance from anywhere.’ She paused, her hand stroking the stem of her wine glass, up and down. Then she added, ‘And it’s true Josh has something to do with my happiness in Cornwall. He may not know anything of this plan, but he’ll love it. And he has become important to me. Not as Stewart is to you, Jo, but he’s close and companionable and I like him being around.’

  ‘Bully for you,’ said Joanna, squeezing Lucy’s shoulder.

  ‘Wow, congratulations, Lucy,’ said Rebecca. ‘Lucky old Josh. He must feel he’s struck the jackpot.’

  Lucy felt a now familiar warmth for these two, so different, women. She turned to Joanna.

  ‘Jo, I can’t bear the suspense. Tell me what you think?’

  ‘OK,’ said Joanna, ‘Pencarrick is worth a fair bit of money now, about twenty-five per cent more than it was when Innovest bought in. From a property point of view, the place will rise in value in the long run whether up-market or middle-market. The reason for the spa is to justify much higher room prices and to give it an out-of-season market. Innovest would want to sell it in a few years, not more than four at most, and would hope to at least double their money. But the refurb and spa will cost a fortune and it’s high risk. On the other hand, if it’s a success and there’s a property boom, they’ll be in clover.’

  Joanna took a sip of water, and absent-mindedly swirled her glass as she went on. ‘To advise you on your plan, Lucy, I’d need to redo all the forecasts assuming lower prices and fewer out-of-season sales, but much less capital spend. I just don’t know without studying it, but my instinct is that owner-operators could make a fair living out of your kind of venture – after all, Pencarrick just about trundles along now. If we were just after a lifestyle business, without backers’ ambitions to satisfy, I think it could work.’

  Lucy noticed Joanna had said ‘we’, not ‘you’. She said. ‘But Jo, would Innovest sell?’

  ‘Sure, if the price was right. That’s what investment houses do: buy and sell. But they’re pretty greedy.’

  They discussed the finances. Even if Jo did not come in, Lucy thought she’d have enough money from the sale of her Cotswold house to buy out Innovest’s shares (even giving them a thirty per cent profit for the few months they’d owned them). She might even be able to afford a more modest refurbishment, without the spa.

  Lucy’s he
art was racing. Joanna had not pooh-poohed the idea.

  ‘But Joanna, I can’t run the place.’

  Joanna smiled at her friend. ‘And you think I can?’

  Lucy leant forward, forcing Joanna to look at her. ‘Of course I do. But would it interest you? Would you join me?’ Joanna’s business-like detachment was driving Lucy mad. She had to know where Joanna stood.

  ‘Well, maybe. I’ve got to stop this company doctor stuff sometime. I love Pencarrick. And if we kept it seasonal we’d get a good bit of the winter off. I need to think about it. But if Stewart is out of the picture, why not? Though, Lucy, I couldn’t be your salaried manager, I’d want a financial stake.’

  ‘Sure. We’d need to be partners.’

  ‘So, yes, it might just work. Let’s look at it.’

  Lucy felt the uprush of excitement might choke her. Joanna’s gaze was steady and pleased. It might work. It really might. She held Joanna’s gaze for a long moment, and then realised Rebecca was speaking.

  ‘And what about me then?’

  Lucy heard the complaint in Becca’s voice, and looking up, saw the hurt in her eyes.

  Joanna said, ‘You’ll do the refurb!’ at the same moment as Lucy said, ‘Design Consultant? How about a scaled-down revamp?’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Twenty minutes to go, and Joanna was dreading it. She checked through her board papers, trying hard to keep thoughts of meeting Stewart at bay. She had not seen him since that day, six weeks ago, when he had made such transcendent love to her at the Wakefield Hotel and then sacked his daughter the next day.

  Joanna told herself she hoped he’d be professional and businesslike so that she would not get emotional, but the truth was she wanted him to put his arms round her and tell her he loved her.

  Dream on, she told herself. He doesn’t want you and you’d better get used to it.

  She had been hurt and angry at Stewart’s abandonment of her, but now she blamed him less and understood more. Dismissing your beloved daughter could not have been easy. She would see it as a stab in the back from an adored father who had unaccountably fallen from his pedestal: selling out to capitalism and betraying her mother’s memory with a hard-as-nails City go-getter. Who, of course, was also the architect of her downfall.