Song Cycle (Warrender Saga Book 8)

by Mary Burchell

  Instead, she asked suddenly, “What was that lovely thing you were playing in church yesterday evening, when I dropped in after choir practice?”

  “Yesterday evening?” He frowned consideringly. “Some Bach, I expect.”

  “No, no, nothing eighteenth century. It was something I didn’t know at all. Tommy Bream came in just about then to retrieve his copy of the anthem, which he’d left behind as usual.”

  “That?” her father laughed. “I was just improvising.”

  “Improvising? You mean you composed it? But it was lovely. So simple and noble. What was it meant to be?”

  “I have no idea.” Her father got up, dismissing the matter as irrelevant. “I must go or I shall be late for school. Don’t tell your mother yet about this disappointment. She takes these things to heart, because she always believes that this time I’ll make a success.”

  He picked up a pile of music with a sigh and went on his way to school, leaving his daughter to reflect with some astonishment that two people could live together in harmony for years and yet not really know the inmost thoughts of each other.

  “He doesn’t know even now how Mother really feels about his work,” she thought with affectionate impatience, “Nor does he know his own talents! That was a lovely air — and he hasn’t even retained it in his memory. Besides, if he did, he’d just smother it under the weight of some huge musical structure. He understands so much about music, bless him — but not the appeal of divine simplicity.”

  She presumed that he broke the news of his disappointment to her mother, and that her mother went through the motions of being surprised and indignant. But nothing else was said about the rejected masterpiece. There were a few rather quiet, somewhat dejected days, and then Anna felt sure that her father began to busy himself again on new plans.

  When he said good-bye to her at the end of the holiday, however, he added some unexpected words.

  “Perhaps some people are born to realise their ambitions only in their children, Anna. Good luck, my dear, in all your hopes and plans. If you succeed, I shan’t mind my own failures.”

  She was considerably moved and also, not unnaturally, overwhelmed by a deep sense of responsibility. It was one thing to live with one’s own hopes and fears; it was a sobering thought to feel that someone else’s ambitions were tied to them too.

  More than ever was she glad that she had not told her parents about her approach to Jonathan Keyne. After all, he might not even bother to answer her.

  His reply was waiting, however, when she returned to London. And, as she stood in the silent, sun-filled flat — it was the afternoon and the other girls were all out — the envelope shook in her hand. Just as her father’s hand had shaken, she remembered, as he opened the letter which contained the answer to his hopes.

  Her letter also consisted of no more than a few lines. But those lines bade her come and audition for Jonathan Keyne at the Carrington Studios on the following Monday.

  Anna was immediately thrown into a fever of excitement and hope, cooled only by the fear that her holiday might have put her slightly out of practice. But then, she remembered, her father had insisted that she worked with him, even on holiday, and she knew his advice and guidance had been on excellent lines. She longed to share her good news with someone. But Judy was also on holiday until the following Monday, and the girls with whom she shared the flat would display little interest, even when they did come in.

  They wished her well, but two of them were air hostesses with very varied interests of their own, and the third one, Carrie — though a charming and good-natured girl — had long ago been slightly deafened and rendered totally insensitive to any real music by the fact that the store where she worked assaulted the ears of staff and customers alike with piped music all day long.

  Finally, Anna telephoned to her singing teacher, Elsa Marburger, who had done so much to launch that successful contralto Gail Rostall on her career. Madame Marburger received the news of the Jonathan Keyne audition with a certain degree of cautious congratulation, and said that naturally Anna would need to come for some special coaching during the few days left to them.

  “You are not ready for leading roles, of course,” she said firmly, when Anna presented herself the following morning. “But some understudy work and one or two minor roles would be excellent experience at this stage.”

  “I thought,” stated Anna boldly, “of asking to be considered for Susanna. I believe they’re doing ‘Fig —’”

  “Susanna,” said Madame Marburger rather coldly, “is not a minor role. It is one of the most difficult and subtle in the whole operatic repertoire.”

  “Then perhaps Barbarina?” suggested Anna, somewhat diminished. “And as I’ve already done a lot of work on Susanna in the studio, possibly I might have a chance of understudying the part on this tour.”

  “That,” her teacher agreed, “would be more realistic. For the rest, since you don’t know what else is being included, we will concentrate on items which show off your voice to the best advantage.”

  This, then, they proceeded to do. And by the weekend the seesaw of Anna’s hopes and fears had steadied itself sufficiently for her to believe that she would at least do herself justice when the great moment came. Beyond that, everything would depend on the stiffness of the competition, of course. For she could not doubt that there would be many lyric sopranos besides herself who would covet the chance of touring Canada under the directorship of Jonathan Keyne.

  Some of them were already gathered there in the waiting-room when she arrived on Monday afternoon at the Carrington Studios — a chill and shabby place with splendid acoustics. As one after the other was called into the large adjoining studio Anna had time to steady her nerves. But when the only one left besides herself was summoned, she found that there was still time to grow panicky again.

  Faintly she could hear sounds of the other girl singing, and each time there was a pause Anna felt her heart thump more heavily. Eventually, after a somewhat longer pause, there was the sound of a closing door. And a few moments later the rather weary-looking accompanist came to the waiting-room door and said. “Are you Miss Fulroyd? You’re the last, then.”

  And Anna walked into the big studio.

  Jonathan Keyne was sitting at a table, with scores and papers spread out in front of him. But he looked up as Anna came in, gave her a penetrating glance and said immediately, “Didn’t you audition for me once before, Miss Fulroyd?”

  “Not professionally.” She was gratified beyond measure that apparently she had registered with him after all! “You were on the board when I was auditioned for entry to St. Cecilia’s College.”

  “I remember.” She saw that he did too. “You sang a Handel aria. Rather well, if I remember rightly.”

  “Did I? — sing it well, I mean.”

  “Certainly. Didn’t you think so?” He looked amused. “Most students today tend to have a higher opinion of their work than the judges do.”

  Anna laughed, and suddenly felt much more at ease.

  “I think I was too nervous to know how I sang it,” she confessed. “But I certainly thought—”

  She stopped, shocked at what she had been about to say, and he asked curiously, “What did you think?”

  “I — I had the impression that you didn’t think much of it. You looked rather bored, to tell the truth.”

  “Did I really? How very remiss of me. Examiners should never look bored. Should they, Peter?” He grinned suddenly at the accompanist.

  “Depends how many others they’ve had to hear that day,” replied the accompanist with a thin smile. “What are you going to sing, Miss Fuller?”

  “The name is Fulroyd. Anna Fulroyd,” said Jonathan Keyne distinctly. And then she really did believe that she had made some sort of impact on him three years ago. She sang Susanna’s last act aria. And because she was now relaxed and somehow elated she sang it well. Neither Jonathan Keyne nor the accompanist could be accused of looking bored
this time. And at the end, Jonathan Keyne asked, “Do you sing the role?”

  “I have studied it fully. I’ve never had an opportunity to sing it on the stage.”

  “And Pamina? Do you do that too?”

  She felt Madame Marburger would deplore her making any real claim to “doing” Pamina. But, still with a feeling of gay, warm confidence, she said once more — and quite truly — that she knew the role fully but had not had an opportunity to sing it on stage.

  “Sing me ‘Ach, ich fuhls,” he said peremptorily.

  She did so, and noticed that he smiled slightly with what looked like pleasure as she negotiated the difficult high passages with skill and real beauty.

  “Who is your teacher?” he enquired when she had finished.

  “Elsa Marburger.”

  “Ah-ha—” he laughed comprehendingly — “that explains the genuine Mozart style. Keeps you pretty firmly on the eighteenth century classics, I imagine?”

  “Well, a good deal of the time — yes.”

  “Any indulgent excursions into the romantics?” And then, as Anna hesitated — “I ask that because of course we are including one or two of the most popular works. ‘Boheme’, for instance. Do you sing Musetta?”

  “I have sung the famous Waltz Song, of course. But—”

  “Sing it for me now.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t the music—”

  “Doesn’t matter. Peter can do it in his sleep. Can’t you, Peter?”

  Peter said he could. But before he could start, Jonathan Keyne leant forward suddenly with his arms on the table, and fixed Anna with an almost commanding glance.

  “Think about it for a moment,” he advised her. “Remember the exact situation. And, whatever you do, don’t be condescending about it or superficial. Use some of that Mozart training, if you like. For that poor, misused little song of Musetta’s is actually one of the cleverest, most stylish things ever written.”

  She stood for a moment or two with her head bent. Then she looked up and smiled across at the accompanist, and he played the opening bars. From somewhere deep down in her musical consciousness Anna drew on her instinctive sense of style, and because of what Jonathan Keyne had just said to her she realised, for the first time, that Musetta was not a brazen hussy, but just a gay, rather touching fille de joie. No more than a transient bubble on the stream of the bohemian life of Paris, yet sealed for ever in her moment of immortality by the ravishing tune which Puccini had given to her.

  Neither of the men said anything for a moment or two after she had finished. Then Jonathan Keyne, his arms crossed in a contented sort of way, leaned back in his chair and smiled at the accompanist.

  “Feel better, Peter?” was the odd thing he said.

  “Much better,” replied Peter. “It takes some of the sour taste out of one’s mouth.”

  Anna looked, amused and enquiring, from one man to the other. And Jonathan Keyne said, “Peter is a fanatical Puccini enthusiast, which is hard on him because he has to hear his favourite music half murdered over and over again.”

  “It’s virtually indestructible, you see,” Peter explained suddenly. “And so every fool makes some sort of rotten shot at it. This Waltz Song of Musetta’s, for instance. About twenty years ago someone had the fatuous idea of giving it to a luscious dramatic soprano, who shall be nameless. She was enormously successful, of course, because the public always loves to hear its favourite tunes bawled at the top of someone’s voice. But she transformed the character into a sort of ‘madam’ in a bawdy house.”

  “Since then,” went on Keyne as Peter lapsed into gloomy silence, “most aspiring Musettas play it for noise and bouncing vitality, and they get the kind of cheers usually reserved for successful footballers. It hurts poor old Peter every time. My guess is that he’d like to kiss you here and now for restoring Musetta to her right interpretation.”

  “I’d like Warrender to hear her,” said Peter, without offering to make good the suggested kiss.

  “So would I,” agreed Jonathan Keyne unexpectedly. “Miss Fulroyd, let’s say frankly that we are exceedingly interested in you. But of course there is a good deal more material to consider and not all that number of vacancies to fill. Oscar Warrender has agreed to sit in on the final selection. I’d like you to be one of those he hears. Leave your phone number, will you? and we’ll let you know about dates and times.”

  She could not conceal her joy, and he laughed warningly.

  “You’re not actually engaged yet, you know. But we’re very glad indeed that you came along.”

  She was glad tool So glad that she went out of the Carrington Studios in a haze of bliss, and walked for nearly ten minutes without looking where she was going before she realised that she was very near Judy’s office and that it was just about her usual time for leaving.

  Anna walked up and down on the pavement, finding it difficult not to smile beatifically at everyone she passed.

  She kept her eye on the imposing entrance to Judy’s office, and was presently rewarded by the sight of none other than Oscar Warrender emerging from the building and pausing for a moment on the pavement to hail a taxi.

  There was something almost symbolical about the brief encounter at this particular time, Anna could not help thinking, and she had to suppress a crazy impulse to go up to him and say, “You don’t know it, but I’m going to sing for you in a few days’ time.”

  Naturally, she retained sufficient sanity to restrain herself from doing any such thing, and just as he drove off in his taxi Judy came running down the few steps from the office.

  “Hello!” She was delighted to see Anna and caught her affectionately by the arm. “Did you see who grandly preceded me down those humdrum steps?”

  “I did. And was suitably impressed,” Anna assured her. “As I knew it was your first day back from holiday and I’ve just come from auditioning for Jonathan Keyne—”

  “You have? What happened?”

  “It went very well, and I’m daring to be hopeful. He asked me to leave my phone number so that he could—”

  “Oh, no!” Judy gave a wail of dismay.

  “Why not?” Anna looked startled.

  “Oh, you know the old gag — ‘Don’t phone us, we’ll phone you.’ It just means, ‘Don’t bother us anymore because you’re never going to hear from us again.’”

  “Well, this didn’t mean anything of the kind,” Anna asserted firmly. “Just let me finish what I was going to say.”

  Upon which she proceeded to give Judy a detailed account of her afternoon, and as she finished the saga over a cup of tea in a nearby café, Judy agreed wholeheartedly that hope was more than justified.

  “Mind, the next few days are going to be pretty tough,” she warned. “Your heart will be in your throat every time the phone bell rings.”

  “I’ll live through it,” Anna declared philosophically.

  And live through it she did, of course, though Judy had been perfectly correct in saying that the real nerve-test would be each time the telephone rang — which it did pretty frequently in a flat which housed four not unattractive girls.

  It was just a week after her original audition, about nine o’clock in the morning, when the telephone bell rang yet again and Carrie, who reached it first, called, “For you, Anna. You’d better hurry. Sounds like a long-distance call.”

  It couldn’t possibly be a long-distance call, Anna felt sure, as she ran into the hall. No one ever telephoned from home except in the evening, when the reduced rate made a long conversation seem less extravagant. It must be — it must be —

  She seized up the receiver and in a not entirely steady voice said, “Yes? This is Anna Fulroyd.”

  “Anna—” to her astonishment it was her father, and something — perhaps the distance — seemed to lend a sort of agitation to his tone. “Anna, is that you?”

  “Yes — yes, of course it is. What is it, Dad? Is something wrong?”

  The voice at the other end faded in a ma
ddening way, and all she could hear was something about — “Your mother — she didn’t want you to be worried, but I think you should know—”

  “What should I know?” Indescribable chill seized Anna, with a force she could not understand. “I can’t hear very well. Say that again, Dad. What was that about Mother?”

  “— into hospital at eight o’clock this morning—” Then suddenly the line cleared almost miraculously and her father’s worried voice said almost in her ear, “She hasn’t been herself for some time. You probably noticed when you were here, but she insisted you shouldn’t be worried.”

  “But what is it? You haven’t said what is really wrong.”

  “What’s that, dear?” Apparently the wretched line had faded at his end now. “What is it, did you say? We don’t know. That’s why the doctor rushed her into hospital. They’re operating this afternoon. It could be just exploratory, but it might be much more serious, because —”A sort of rattling intervened at this point and all Anna heard after that was — “confounded line — but I’ll phone later this afternoon—”

  Then the line went dead and Anna was left standing there in the hall of the flat, miles and miles and miles away from any source of information, just staring at the silent receiver in her hand, as though it were a snake which had suddenly risen in her hitherto happy path.

  “Coffee’s ready,” called Carrie cheerfully from the kitchen.

  “I’ll join you in a minute.” Anna came to the kitchen door to explain. “That was an urgent call from home. My mother’s had to go to hospital. I couldn’t hear any details because the line was bad. I must call back and ask my father —”

  But before she could do that the telephone bell rang again.

  “There he is! He must have re-connected from his end.” And she rushed to pick up the receiver once more.

  It was not her father this time, however. It was Jonathan Keyne’s pleasant but slightly peremptory voice which said, “I should like to speak to Miss Anna Fulroyd, please.”