On Wings of Song

by Peter D Wilson

with a twinkle when some eyebrows were raised: she was well aware of her reputation and rather enjoyed it, I thought; that was one reason why I doubted it.

  Nevertheless this development naturally gave rise to a good deal of banter, which Joan typically took in good part and handled deftly without giving very much away. “That’s all very well,” Barbara told her a couple of weeks later, “but we still don’t know whether Gordon actually has any influence over Cynthia. And we haven’t all that much time left.”

  “He doesn’t say a great deal about her, though there’s no suggestion of anything less than normal family affection. But in any case you can’t expect her to change her arrangements without a convincing reason, however close they may be.”

  “Well, has anything come up that might suggest such a reason?”

  “Short of the hall’s burning down there’s nothing obvious.” Even Barbara stopped short of contemplating arson, so it began to seem that successful as Joan’s enterprise might have been socially, it hadn’t taken us much further with our problem.

  However, while Joan was giving the next lesson, Cynthia happened to call and Joan was duly introduced as the tutor. “So you’re getting him to look after himself a bit better? I hope it’s healthy eating.”

  “Well, reasonably. A fair amount of fruit or veg. and not too much in the way of chips and fried stuff.”

  “Good.” Then she turned to the reason for her visit. “Gordon, you’ll have to do something about the parish council.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “They’re turning stroppy about our rehearsal times in the hall.”

  “I’d have thought they’d be glad to have the rent.”

  “That’s the point. We’re actually paying only for our usual two sessions a week. We had an informal arrangement that so long as no one else needed the hall and we didn’t have the heating on, the hall committee would look the other way, but Donald Ferguson heard about it and put his foot down. He’s very sorry but the parish can’t afford to be so generous.”

  “Well, I suppose you’ll just have to pay up, then.”

  “But we can’t afford it, either. The scores cost far more than we’d expected, and you know there’s been a crack-down on copying. Can’t you tackle Donald and get him to change his mind?”

  “Well, I’ll have a word, but don’t build up any hopes.”

  After she had gone, Joan wondered why the church choir needed to pay rent at all to the church, but Gordon explained that it had been formally reconstituted as a choral society a few years back to qualify for some funds on offer at the time, and the parish church council had insisted reasonably enough that they couldn’t have it both ways, at least when putting on a secular event. They would normally rehearse in the church, but a long-overdue programme of structural repairs had at last been started now that the builder found a slot to fit it in, and the place was constantly smothered in dust; hence the need to use the hall.

  Joan duly reported this interesting intelligence the next time we met, and it struck me that if we were worried about the prospect of a competing event, St. Cyprian’s had at least as much cause for alarm about the loss of revenue due to a clash, and there would be mutual benefit in avoiding it. Obviously Barbara could never raise the question with them, and it would be best not to risk blowing Joan’s cover such as it was, so it was settled that I should approach Cynthia and put the situation to her. A discreet enquiry showed that their hall rental was significantly higher than ours, so I suggested that as an olive branch after the business with the coach hire, we should offer the use of our hall when it wasn’t otherwise occupied. Barbara of course demurred, but Fred told her not to be so silly - the worm really was showing signs of turning - and with much less trouble than I’d expected, it was agreed.

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  I’d never actually met Cynthia in person and wondered what to expect. She turned out to be a small, wiry and clearly very determined lady with whom it would be unwise to trifle, and would have been sure to see through any flannel, so I came straight out with our anxiety about the coincidence of dates and she took the point immediately. Which of us should move was the question, and I thought it best to haggle over that for a little while before playing what I hoped would be our trump card.

  That was followed by a full twenty seconds of complete silence. I could almost hear the cogs whirring. She then asked whether the offer depended on a postponement of her concert, as I confirmed, and she nodded quietly. After a shorter interval she said “Right. To be honest, we could do with another month’s preparation. We’ve had a lot of trouble with illness, and trying to catch up with extra rehearsals in the same week doesn’t suit everyone. It’s a bit awkward in some ways, but on the whole I think putting it back will be best all round.” We shook hands and parted quite amicably.

  After this, Barbara expected Joan to be relieved that the purpose of her ruse had been achieved and she could drop it, but instead the reaction was of shocked indignation. “What sort of woman do you take me for? To go back on a promise because I don’t need to make use of him any more? I shouldn’t dream of it!”

  I’d never seen her so angry, nor Barbara so taken aback. “W-well, if that’s the way you look at it ...”

  “Yes, it damn well is. Now can we get on with the rehearsal?”

  Interesting, I thought. Joan certainly went up a notch or two in my estimation, and the expressions on a few other faces seemed to register approval. Barbara was still a bit wobbly by the time for a break, and actually asked me whether she’d put her foot in something. “Maybe, but don’t worry. Joan’s got it off her chest -” (a rather unfortunate anatomical reference, it later struck me) “- and I don’t think she’s one for grudges. That’s probably the end of it.” Even so, I wondered whether more was going on than we realised.

  Evidently there was. Joan actually brought Gordon along to the next rehearsal and introduced him. He seemed, as she had said, very much the gentleman, paying close attention and sitting quietly, apart from a little gentle applause now and then. At the break he came up and commented that he understood I’d had dealings with his sister; how had I got on with her? “Pretty well, I think. She wasn’t giving anything away unnecessarily, of course, but she struck me as quite straightforward.”

  “Good. She said something of the sort about you, too. But I believe there’s a long-standing feud of some sort with Barbara; do you know what that’s all about?”

  “Only that it’s something hanging over from their school days. I don’t suppose you know any more?”

  “No, I’ve always thought it best not to ask. Discretion the better part of valour, and all that. But I do wish it could be cleared up.”

  I wondered what his interest might be, and he explained that he’d heard a great deal about Cynthia’s choir from her, and latterly a fair amount about ours from Joan; it seemed a pity that two organisations doing much the same kind of thing in the same town should be at loggerheads when they might do much better by co-operating. “I’m sure you realise that your lot aren’t as good as Cynthia’s, but you’re not bad, and you’ve got ambitions which is more than I could say of hers. Think of what you might do together.” Actually, I couldn’t, and pointed out that in any case the chances of getting Barbara and Cynthia into the same team were negligible; there’d be constant bickering over who was to be in charge.

  Gordon nodded understanding and paused for a moment. I wondered what was coming. “Of course,” he said, “there is one person trusted and respected by both parties.”

  I wondered who that might be. “Why, you, of course.”

  I was flabbergasted. “You’re not suggesting that I should run this ... this ...”

  “That’s precisely what I am suggesting.” But the break was over. “Think about it,” he urged, as we went back to our places. We had no further opportunity to talk that evening.

  The more I thought the less I liked it, so when he phoned a couple of days later I expla
ined that Barbara might trust me as a fairly reliable dogsbody, but would never contemplate me as a manager.

  “Don’t call it management, then. How about ‘liaison’?”.

  “I don’t see that that would help all that much. In any case, why are you so keen on the idea?”

  “Better not explain over the phone. Can we meet somewhere?”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or intrigued by this suggestion of plotting, but after a moment’s thought suggested a pub likely to be noisy enough to prevent casual eavesdropping. Gordon insisted on buying the drinks and found a place in a relatively quiet corner by the outer wall.

  “Why all the mystery?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s rather silly really, but I’ve been particularly enjoined not to let cats out of bags too early. The point is that our firm has linked up with another in the States, and the boss is in a tizzy of keeping up with the transatlantic Joneses - not that anyone involved is called that, so far as I know. When he went across to clinch the deal, their big man treated him to a concert given by a chamber orchestra that they support, and seemed to take it for granted that we’d have some similar arrangement. Of course, he couldn’t bear to lose face by simply admitting that we haven’t, and he seems to have dug himself into a hole too deep to get out of, so now we’re scratching around