Child of Music (Warrender Saga Book 5)

by Mary Burchell

  At that stage she was still inclined to see herself as sweeping on and off platforms, with the world more or less waiting on tiptoe to hear her, so she took these words of wisdom rather scornfully. But their basic good sense remained somewhere at the back of her mind and, as she gradually found her feet in a competitive world, she also found the true measure of her gifts.

  She was a born teacher, with a splendid capacity for arousing interest in her pupils and opening new and glorious vistas for them. No child ever looked bored in her classes, and no individual pupil ever felt of less than supreme interest and importance in her musical scheme of things.

  Faced with her very first class of almost uniformly blank pupils, she had asked if they had heard of this composer or that work. One and all shook discouraged heads and waited for the criticism. But instead she cried,

  ‘You lucky children! You’ve got it all before you. We’re going to have a wonderful time. Just listen to this for a start.’ And she went to the piano and played a simple, tripping, heart-warming little tune. ‘Do you like it?’

  One or two said tentatively that they did. Several still looked blank. And the trouble-maker in the class giggled.

  ‘You’ve got the right idea.’ Felicity picked him out at once. ‘It’s funny — it’s gay — it’s something to laugh at. Come here. — Yes, you. The boy who knew when to laugh.’

  He came slowly, not at all sure that she was not going to hold him up to ridicule.

  ‘How old are you?’ Felicity asked.

  ‘Twelve,’ he admitted reluctantly.

  ‘Twelve? Just two years younger than the chap who wrote this. His name was Mozart. Listen again.’ She played it once more. ‘He was fourteen when he wrote that, and he meant it for boys and girls like you, so that you could laugh and enjoy something easy but of quality. There are lots of tunes like this. They make you feel good and they’re fun to sing, even if you only la-la the tune.’

  ‘I could sing it now,’ he asserted suddenly.

  ‘Sing it, then.’

  So he piped his way through it with a certain degree of accuracy. Then the others wanted to join in. They sang it twice. Then someone said in a way it was prettier than pop. And Felicity knew the class was hers.

  By the time she came to Carmalton her methods were a trifle less naïve, but she never had the slightest trouble in holding the interest of a class. She loved her subject. And in a warm, unsentimental way she loved her pupils too. She knew that in a commercially corrupted world they were constantly assailed by the ugly, the puerile and the insidiously damaging. And she tried with all her heart and skill to make beauty and artistic truth as easily available to them as the trash with which they were perpetually bombarded.

  Only a small proportion in her classes really assimilated much of what she was trying to put over to them, she knew. But few remained untouched by it and some even developed a musical enjoyment and curiosity which made every effort worthwhile.

  With her individual pupils, of course, she was able to do much more. And among those the outstanding discovery was Janet Morton.

  The first time she saw Janet she was already aware of the child’s tragic history, and she put down her dreamy, withdrawn manner to the shock of the then recent car crash which had robbed her of both her parents. But as soon as she heard the child play her violin, and noted her reaction to music far beyond her natural age-group’s understanding, Felicity knew that she was dealing with something quite out of the ordinary.

  To say that Janet lived in a world of her own would not have been quite correct. But, in some odd way, she withdrew sometimes into a world of her own, where she seemed perfectly happy and from which she came back refreshed, enlivened and somehow enriched.

  She was a plain-looking little girl, small for her age, pale, and with no remarkable feature except her dark-lashed, quite wonderful smoky-blue eyes. These, however, were usually framed in round spectacles, since she was short-sighted. But when she took off her glasses, which she did sometimes when she was playing from her prodigious memory, she could look almost beautiful.

  To some people — Mary Elliott included — her composure was disquieting. To Felicity it had the fascinating quality of someone who knew where she was going. And once, when she was listening to Janet playing and watching her absorbed, intelligent little face above her violin, Felicity recalled the old Italian saying about the world standing aside for the man who knows where he is going. That, she realized, was exactly how Janet looked. She knew where she was going to such a degree that it seemed likely one day the world would stand aside for her.

  Felicity had thought a great deal about Janet Morton before she had finally come to the conclusion that every effort should be made to get her into the Tarkman School. But the fact that it was not more than three miles away from Carmalton really made it the obvious first choice, once one accepted the fact that the child’s education should move from the general class into the particular.

  For a while Felicity considered the possibility of invoking the help and interest of Anthea and her famous husband. But for a couple of years now she had seen nothing of the Warrenders. Their paths had inevitably lain in different directions. Besides, if she made her approach through them it was possible that a chord would be touched in Stephen Tarkman’s memory, and this would hardly be helpful to her candidate. Better far that the approach should be made formally and professionally. As the music-teacher of a genuinely gifted child, Felicity might reasonably be expected to be involved in the application on her behalf.

  The day following her talk with Mary, Felicity kept Janet back at the end of her music lesson and inquired, almost casually, if she ever thought what she would like to be when she grew up.

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss Grainger.’ Janet looked slightly surprised, ‘I’m going to be a violinist. I wouldn’t want to be anything else.’

  With any other child Felicity might have pointed out mildly that ‘want’ was not necessarily the operative word in relation to what one eventually did for a living. But instead she said, ‘You do understand, don’t you, that the professional concert player is up against very stiff competition?’

  ‘I was just thinking of making music,’ replied Janet simply. And, unworldly though the reply was, it went straight to Felicity’s heart. For there spoke the true artist. It was not success, a big career, the importance of being ‘someone’ which appealed to the child, as to most children. It was the music which was more important than herself.

  ‘You have the right idea,’ Felicity told her with a smile. ‘But, as your teacher, I must look at the more practical side of things.’ She hesitated a moment and then went on, ‘I’m inclined to think you have a talent which would justify your being trained for a public career. And for that it would be necessary for you to go to a special school, one where all your education was geared to that end.’

  ‘Somewhere like the Tarkman School, you mean?’ Janet said coolly.

  ‘Oh, you know about that?’

  Janet nodded, and then added astonishingly, ‘My aunt knows Mr. Tarkman.’

  ‘Your aunt does? But I didn’t know you had any family at all, Janet.’

  ‘Only my aunt. And she doesn’t like me,’ Janet explained unemotionally. ‘I don’t like her either,’ she added without heat. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to live with her after my — after I was left alone. And she said she didn’t want me either.’

  ‘Did she?’ said Felicity before she could stop herself. But then she realized that, intriguing though this subject might be, it was quite an unsuitable one to discuss further with a child. So she reverted to the subject of the school instead and explained that for some while she had been considering the possibility of getting Janet into the Tarkman School.

  ‘I’d like that!’ The plain little face lit up and Janet took off her glasses and gazed eagerly at Felicity with her beautiful, short-sighted eyes. ‘Would there be — any chance?’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t know,’ Felicity admitted. ‘But personally I
think it’s worth applying, though I had to find how you felt about it first. Now that you tell me your aunt knows Mr. Tarkman — ’

  ‘But I told you, she doesn’t like me,’ Janet explained patiently.

  ‘You might be mistaken about that,’ Felicity smiled. ‘The fact that she didn’t feel able to have you live with her might have depended on circumstances beyond her control, you know. She would almost certainly be interested in a member of her family who showed marked talent and — ’

  Then Felicity stopped. Because instead of her tactful words producing any reaction on or fresh information from Janet, it had become obvious that the little girl had politely withdrawn into her own thoughts until Miss Grainger should have talked herself out on a subject she did not understand.

  Felicity laughed exasperatedly and for a moment knew what it was about Janet which annoyed Mary Elliott.

  ‘All right, Janet, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Bush first.’

  In the event, Mrs. Bush proved considerably more interested than Felicity had expected, though she uttered a word of caution against raising the child’s hopes too high.

  ‘She’s had enough emotional upset in her life already without having to face a bitter disappointment too.’

  ‘I know. Do you know anything about her aunt?’ Felicity inquired on impulse. ‘She made some cryptic reference to her, but I thought it best not to follow that up. I was always under the impression that she had no family and that this was why she lived in a foster-home with the Emlyns.’

  ‘No, that’s not quite right. Though for all practical purposes, I suppose it is. The aunt is an aunt by marriage and, as she made abundantly clear at the time, has absolutely no legal responsibility towards Janet. She’s a very pretty woman and likes, I believe, to be known as a widow; though in actual fact, I think Janet’s uncle divorced her at least a year before he died.’

  ‘He died too? Not in the same accident, surely? What a tragic family!’ exclaimed Felicity.

  ‘No, he wasn’t in the accident. It was a coronary or something. But you’re right about its being a tragic family.’

  ‘Poor Janet!’ exclaimed Felicity compassionately. ‘I’m afraid she is herself well aware that her aunt firmly rejected her or any claim that could be made on her behalf.’

  ‘Very likely. Mrs. Morton — her name was also Morton — was that kind of woman. I didn’t take to her,’ added Mrs. Bush, with what Felicity felt was probably masterly understatement. ‘That’s partly why I feel one must be especially careful about raising hopes in Janet which could be cruelly dashed. You really think she is sufficiently talented to make this approach to Tarkman?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Felicity was firm about that. ‘I’ve tried to warn her against too easy hopes, though of course she is too intelligent to be unaware of what is involved. But she must risk failure if she is going to make any real bid for success. One always has to.’

  ‘I realize that.’ Mrs. Bush smiled a little drily. ‘But, as I’m not musical myself, Miss Grainger, I have to rely on you alone to assess the child’s talents. I understand your enthusiasm, but I don’t want that to topple your judgment. If you have guessed wrong and Janet is, in a sense, rejected again it could be very damaging for her.’

  A momentary and chilling sense of indecision gripped Felicity. Her faith in her own judgment of Janet was very strong, but of course she could be wrong. She had been sadly wrong, for instance, about Rodney Eskith, three years ago. Though why that should return at this precise moment to shake her confidence she could not imagine.

  But a decision had to be made and made very soon. And since there were no parents — nothing but an admittedly indifferent aunt — to judge for Janet or protect her interests, it was Felicity, backing her own judgment, who had to decide if the child should be left in possibly quite happy obscurity or shepherded, coaxed, dragooned along the road which might lead to almost sensational heights.

  For nearly half a minute she remained silent, her head bent. Then she looked up and said resolutely, ‘This isn’t a hasty decision. I’ve thought about it a lot and, as far as I’m capable of judging, I think Janet has the possibility of a great future. This is only the very first step, of course, but I think she should be encouraged to take it.’

  ‘Very well,’ Mrs. Bush said. ‘I will make the initial application to the Tarkman School on Janet’s behalf.’

  This was not quite what Felicity had intended. But a moment’s reflection convinced her that a formal application from the child’s headmistress — even an admittedly unmusical headmistress — was the correct first approach. Later, when it came to discussing Janet’s qualifications with whoever made the first selection for entrants, it would be her turn to speak.

  Once the matter was out of her hands, even temporarily, Felicity became restless and dissatisfied about the way she had handled it. She should have been more enthusiastic, more emphatic in what she had said to Mrs. Bush. After all, her views, for what they were worth, had to be relayed at second-hand, as it were, and must certainly lose something in the transmission.

  She managed to conceal her anxiety from Janet, directing her attention firmly to her day-to-day work, and not allowing her to look any further ahead than the end-of-term concert at which Janet was to play.

  A week, ten days, went past during which, as Mary told her though without rancour, she was not entirely easy to live with. Then, on a wet Wednesday morning, Mrs. Bush called Felicity into her room at the midmorning break and handed her a letter.

  ‘This came this morning. It’s from Mr. Tarkman’s secretary.’

  With a not entirely steady hand Felicity took the letter and studied it. It was courteous, brief and impersonal and merely stated that, as a preliminary step, Mr. Stephen Tarkman would be glad if Janet Morton’s music teacher could make it convenient to call and see him in his office at the Tarkman Foundation at eleven-thirty on the following Saturday morning. If this was not a suitable time, would he or she telephone to make another appointment?

  ‘It’s as much as we could expect,’ Mrs. Bush said. ‘At least we have a foot in the door. The next move is up to you. Can you manage this Saturday morning?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can manage it,’ Felicity assured her a trifle breathlessly.

  As she came out of Mrs. Bush’s room she ran straight into Mary, who stopped, gave her a second glance and said, ‘You look — stirred up somehow. Have you been promoted, or sacked?’

  ‘Neither. I’ve been bidden to the Tarkman presence on Saturday morning to discuss Janet Morton,’ Felicity replied, and she was annoyed to hear her own voice run up the scale slightly with sheer excitement.

  ‘Good for you!’ Mary patted her on the shoulder in a congratulatory sort of way. ‘Be sure you play it cool.’

  ‘I mean to,’ Felicity declared.

  But from then until she walked up the steps of the handsome building which housed the Tarkman Trust on that Saturday morning, Felicity was seldom free from a slight tremor of nervous excitement.

  The name of Stephen Tarkman, and the letter which she presented, opened all doors and she was rapidly wafted up to a pleasant but not ostentatious office on the first floor. And here the man who rose to greet her looked so exactly as she remembered him at the Warrender dinner-party that it seemed impossible he should not recall her vividly too.

  He showed no sign of doing so, however. Indeed, as he said, ‘Sit down, Miss — Grainger,’ he glanced down at his desk where she could see her own note confirming the interview, as though he were refreshing his memory about an entirely unfamiliar name.

  That steadied her and she took the seat he indicated with what she hoped was ail air of great composure.

  ‘Well, Mrs. Bush wrote very persuasively about this child, Janet Morton,’ he began, coming straight to the point. ‘But she is frank about not being qualified herself to judge musically. She says in her letter that this she leaves entirely to you. Tell me about Janet, Miss Grainger.’

  So she began
to explain about Janet as clearly and eloquently as she could. Nothing to do with the child’s personal background, lest she should be thought to be offering special pleading on behalf of a touching case. She spoke sympathetically but authoritatively about the little girl’s remarkable technique, infinite capacity for hard work and, above all, her innate musicality. And he listened attentively. Much more attentively than he had listened to anything she had had to say at that dinner-party of unhappy memory.

  At the end he said, ‘Naturally I should have to hear her myself. And I should want Professor Blackthorn to hear her too. But I must make it quite clear from the beginning that the applicants far exceed the few vacancies available, and no child without really outstanding gifts has any chance of being accepted.’

  ‘Janet’s gifts are outstanding,’ replied Felicity quietly.

  ‘You’re very sure of that?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘As sure as you were about Rodney Eskith, for instance?’ He looked up suddenly and that mocking smile was there, to remind her with painful clarity of an occasion she would so willingly have forgotten.

  She caught her breath slightly, resisted the almost overwhelming temptation to reply tartly and said with complete honesty, ‘I was wrong about Rodney Eskith.’

  ‘Yes, you were, weren’t you? But it’s courageous of you to admit it so frankly,’ he added unexpectedly.

  ‘It wouldn’t be much good doing anything else.’ She gave a small, wry smile. ‘He provided incontrovertible evidence of the fact, didn’t he?’

  Stephen Tarkman laughed so heartily at that that for the first time she thought she saw why Anthea Warrender had expected her to like him. The impression was gone in a moment, however, as he said carelessly,

  ‘You could have pretended you didn’t remember a thing about the discussion.’

  ‘Just as you pretended you didn’t remember a thing about me?’

  ‘I didn’t until a minute or two ago,’ he assured her with brutal frankness. ‘But so far as Janet Morton is concerned — ’

  ‘Please — ’ interrupted Felicity eagerly. ‘Although I admit to having been mistaken about Rodney Eskith, I do assure you I am right about Janet. Please give her a chance and hear her for yourself.’