by Pam Rhodes
“Well, I was trained to lead church choirs by the Royal School of Church Music,” said Sylvia. “It wasn’t a full-time course, just evenings and occasional weekends, but it was very good. Do you think that counts?”
“Definitely,” replied Neil. “And whatever qualifications you all have or haven’t got, you’ve been invited to lead the music on this trip because you’ve got years of experience and you’re excellent at the job.”
“It’s not always just about the score and the notes, though,” said Clifford. “It’s about being sensitive to the occasion and knowing what music’s most appropriate.”
Brian burst out laughing. “I can’t believe you said that, Clifford Davies – the man who belted out a rendition of ‘There Was I Waiting at the Church’ during that ceremony when the groom didn’t turn up.”
“It lightened the atmosphere. If we hadn’t laughed, we’d have all been in tears.”
“But you’re right, Cliff,” said Sylvia. “It does take experience to understand the role of music in creating atmosphere for worship. Sometimes a big choral piece works best. Sometimes what’s needed is something quiet and prayerful during the Eucharist, or joyous and full of praise when we feel like raising our hands in the air, even if we don’t actually dare.”
“Well, Mrs Swinton and I have arranged to meet later for afternoon tea,” Clifford eventually continued. “I wonder if any of you might care to join us? I mean, what on earth am I going to say? I could do with a bit of moral support here.”
Neil laughed. “Knowing Carole, you won’t be required to do much of the talking. It’ll take her no time at all to discover that you’re more than a match for her, but she’s a woman who relishes a challenge. She’ll love you.”
“You’re going to abandon me to that woman’s clutches, aren’t you, the whole rotten lot of you!”
The rest of them looked at each other, nodding in gleeful agreement.
“You’re the man for the job, Cliff,” said Brian. “We’re relying on you. And having worked with you for more years than I care to remember, all I can say is, heaven help that poor lady! Please be gentle with her.”
Once they were all back on board The Pilgrim, Neil left Claire to take Iris and Harry back to their cabins before lunch, and set off down several decks until he found the destination he was seeking. When he knocked, the door was opened by a uniformed nurse.
“I wonder if Dr Osbourn is available for a few minutes?”
“It’s OK.” Bradley appeared from the consulting room. “This is a social rather than a medical call. In fact,” he added to the nurse, “it must be almost time for your break. Why don’t you slip off early today?”
Delighted at the thought, the nurse picked up her bag, shutting the door behind her.
“I thought you’d come,” Bradley said when the two men were alone.
“As long as I’m not intruding.”
“I need to apologize to you about the other day. You must have thought I was a mad man…”
“I thought you were a man in turmoil, and no apology is needed.”
“Thank you for your discretion the other night in the captain’s suite.”
“I must admit I thought our paths might cross again, but I didn’t expect to see you in uniform.”
“So now you understand what’s been tearing me apart. When Chris came to see me the day before he died, it wasn’t just a cry for help to his dad. He came because I’m a doctor.”
“So what did he want?”
“Heroin.”
“Why would he think you’d give him that?”
“He said the market price for heroin was going through the roof. The only stuff he could afford was rubbish, mixed with all sorts of other substances. He knew it was toxic and he shouldn’t touch it, but he needed his fix. He said if I loved him, I’d get some good, clean stuff for him.”
Neil whistled softly under his breath.
“There was no question of me doing anything like that. I’d be struck off and lose my licence to practise. I told him that.”
“Was there anything you felt you could do?”
“I tried saying I could get him onto a substitute like methadone, but he wasn’t interested. Addicts need to be in the right frame of mind to start that treatment, usually when they’re desperate enough to know they really want to change. The doctor has to be certain the patient is at the point where they’re honestly committed to getting off drugs – and I knew he was nowhere near that stage. Besides, I couldn’t prescribe methadone without doing a proper examination – blood, urine tests, there’s quite a list – and he wasn’t going to wait for any of that. He wanted heroin, and he wanted it now. He got angry and abusive, with a lot of colourful language in the names he called me.”
“But as a doctor, you had no choice but to respond as you did.”
“Chris wasn’t asking a doctor. He was asking his dad. He needed heroin. He knew that if I’d really wanted to, I could have helped him get the proper stuff and clean needles – but I chose not to. I shouted at him. I told him I was ashamed of him, that he was a mess and a failure, a disappointment and embarrassment to his mother. And then he said… he said…”
He stopped, covering his face with his hands for several seconds until he was able to go on.
“He said if he was found dead in an alley somewhere, it would be my fault.”
Brad’s words hung in the air as he struggled to continue.
“I could tell he was just about to stamp out of the room – and then, suddenly, the fight seemed to go out of him. I’ve never seen such anguish in anyone’s eyes as I saw in Chris’s at that moment. He started crying like a little boy, calling out to me, ‘Dad, I need help. I need your help. Please, Dad, please…’”
Brad’s face contorted with pain as he relived the memory.
“And I turned my back on him. I told him I couldn’t help and it wasn’t fair of him to ask. I walked away. Then, seconds later, I thought better of it and turned back, but he’d gone.”
Brad looked up at Neil, his expression wretched and bleak.
“The next time I saw him was three days later. He was on a slab in the mortuary. I did that, Neil. I killed my son. Can you blame his mother for hating me?”
“Earl Grey, Mr Davies?” Carole Swinton’s manicured hand was poised over the bone china teapot.
“I’m a builder’s tea man myself,” replied Cliff, turning to wave to a hovering waiter. “That’s what years of being in the theatre does for you. We mostly had neither the time nor the money to eat properly, so tea was our staple diet, the stronger the better.”
Not a muscle on Carole’s face moved, but her disapproval of the man sharing the table with her and her husband was absolutely plain.
“And gin and tonic,” added Clifford, relishing every moment of her disdain. “I always found I played better with a good slug of gin inside me. I just had to watch it didn’t make me play faster. The chorus line girls always gave me a hard time when I did that.”
“Mr Davies.” Carole’s steely tone cut the conversation dead. “Garry and I are very concerned about the standard of music provided for worship on this Christian cruise. Apparently, you are the one responsible. That being so, we intend to list our concerns and demand that you take action to remedy them with immediate effect.”
If Carole expected an instant reaction, she didn’t get one. It was almost as if Clifford hadn’t heard her. Instead, he deliberately picked up his pot of English breakfast tea, pouring the golden liquid into his cup before dropping in two sugar lumps. After what seemed like an age of stirring, he replaced the spoon, lifted his cup and saucer, and sat back comfortably in his seat to look directly at her.
“I’m all ears, dear lady.”
“I have a first-class honours degree in Music and Performance from Manchester University.”
“And you’ve performed professionally?”
“She was in the chorus at Glyndebourne,” interrupted Garry. “She’d have been in for more th
an just a month if I hadn’t swept her off her feet and got her to marry me.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Coming up for twenty years,” said Garry, ignoring the blackening of Carole’s expression as he placed his hand possessively on her knee. “She’s still got a beautiful voice, though. You should hear her singing around the house. And she’s knocking that awful choir at St Jude’s into shape. She’s a real pro, aren’t you, darling?”
“Do you teach?”
“I have done,” said Carole, shifting herself away from Garry. “I’m very selective about the pupils I take on.”
“And what instruments do you play?”
“Piano, of course.”
“To what standard?”
Her expression hardened. “A high standard.”
“Do you play the organ?”
“I prefer not to. At St Jude’s we have a man to do that. I am the choir director.”
“And how big is the choir?”
“Numbers are growing as its reputation increases. I only took it over a year ago, and since then it’s been a challenge which has needed all my qualifications and experience.”
“And your concerns about the music on this cruise are what?”
“Well,” she began, warming to her cause, “it’s a takeover bid by the Bedfordshire musical mafia! It’s all been stitched up by your cosy little group who – correct me if I’m wrong – haven’t got a musical qualification between you. We need to represent the very best of the Anglican musical tradition: choral anthems, four-part harmonies, and traditional hymns with presence and gravitas. At our services to date, your ill-prepared team have come up with far too many modern choruses which may be known today, but will certainly be forgotten tomorrow. And what makes you think the passengers on this cruise, who, let’s face it, are mostly aged fifty and upwards, are likely to have any interest at all in all this happy-clappy rubbish? Heaven knows what the bishop thinks of it! Oh, but then he chose you to provide the music, so perhaps he knows no better. He wouldn’t understand the need to provide a mature, considered, traditional music setting which adds depth and meaning to our worship. That is its purpose – and that is your failing!”
Once again, Clifford took a sip of tea before replacing his cup to reply.
“So,” he started at last, “you were a student of music more than two decades ago, and apart from a few performances soon after leaving university, you’ve rarely performed professionally since. You mostly sing at home for your husband’s pleasure. You play the piano but not the organ, which is the usual instrument in most churches, and by your own admission the St Jude’s choir is still not performing up to standard, even though you have been its musical director for a year.
“I suggest that as you have such an aversion to the widely acclaimed pieces written by current Christian songwriters, you have only limited knowledge of the rich variety of excellent music that is used in worship these days. I agree with you of course, dear lady, that a first-class honours degree in music is a significant achievement, but so is the combined treasure of decades of experience in churches of all denominations and styles which our current team is able to offer.”
“And your experience stems from downing gin whilst you played for chorus girls in end-of-the-pier summer season shows, does it, Mr Davies?”
“Absolutely,” Clifford agreed with a smile. “Although I did manage to fit in a few other productions too…”
“I demand,” continued Carole, her face getting redder as she rallied to her cause, “indeed, I insist that you and the St Stephen’s road-show loosen your grip on the provision of music on this cruise, and allow me to bring a bit of decorum for those of us who are mature enough in our musical appreciation to recognize what is suitable and what is simply show business!”
“Well, I’ll be blowed!”
They all looked up at the sudden interruption. A man got up from a table a short distance away and was now approaching them. He was probably in his late fifties, looking cool and elegant in light, tailored trousers teamed with a smart beige jacket.
“Cliff Davies! Fancy meeting you here.”
“Bernie!” exclaimed Clifford, genuinely delighted to see the newcomer. “You look wonderful. You haven’t aged a bit. Whatever you’re on, I want some. How many years has it been?”
Bernie pulled up a chair to sit alongside Clifford. “That last Royal Variety Show with Shirley, I should think…”
“And how is Ms Bassey?” grinned Clifford. “As entertaining as ever, I hope.”
“She never changes. That’s what I like most about her. And you, Clifford? Is this cruise a well-earned rest for you?”
Bernie took in the astonished faces of Carole and Garry.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive the intrusion. I’m Bernie Gordon, and I can’t tell you how delighted I am to run into this marvellous man so unexpectedly. He’s just the best, but then you obviously know that. I was never comfortable allowing my artistes to get involved in any big production or live television show unless I knew he was the musical director. They all wanted to work with him – Lulu, Sir Cliff… How long did you do that series with Cilla?”
“Oh, a few years,” smiled Clifford.
“She called him her lucky charm,” Bernie explained to Carole and Garry. “If Clifford wasn’t available, she would simply turn down the booking.”
For once in her life, Carole seemed genuinely lost for words.
“So what brings you on this trip?” asked Clifford.
“Rhydian’s one of mine. He’s a real rising star, you know; in demand around the world. I wouldn’t normally have considered letting him do something as small fry as this, but he insisted. He’s a Christian, you see. That means a lot to him. When he heard about the invitation to join this cruise, he jumped at it. I’ve just come along to make sure things run smoothly and to keep an eye on him. Oh, here he is now.”
Carole’s jaw dropped as she watched the famous operatic star making his way across from the table he’d been sharing with Bernie. A shock of pale hair rose from a face with chiselled features and strikingly blue eyes. His broad shoulders, muscular frame and confident stride gave him an air of strength and presence.
“Rhyd, come and meet a great friend of mine, the best keyboard player in the business: Clifford Davies.”
“I’m honoured to meet you, Cliff. I’ve heard Bernie mention you often,” said Rhydian, shaking his hand. “Is there any chance you might be accompanying me during my set?”
“Not on this occasion,” replied Clifford. “I assume your musical backing will be provided by the on-board musicians.”
“Well,” huffed Bernie, “if they’re not up to scratch, I’ll be calling on you.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. They seem very competent.”
“I don’t want mere competence, though,” replied Rhydian in his lilting Welsh accent. “I want art and passion. I take my singing very seriously. I haven’t met the band yet, but if they struggle at all with my material, it would be good to know I could call on you.”
“Tell you what, let’s talk about it over dinner tonight,” suggested Bernie. “Please join our table this evening, Cliff. We’ve a lot to catch up on.”
Clifford laughed. “And a lot that’s probably better forgotten! Of course I’d love to join you.”
“Shall we say half seven in the à la carte restaurant?” smiled Bernie.
“That will be perfect,” agreed Clifford, standing to scoop up his newspaper and key from the table. “I’ll walk out with you, Bernie. We’re pulling together a gospel choir from the passengers on board, and our first rehearsal is in fifteen minutes. I do hope you’ll join us, Carole. You too, Garry. We could do with some good chorus singers.”
And with a gracious wave in their direction, he joined Bernie and Rhydian as they wove their way between the tea tables towards the door. It wasn’t until they were safely around the corner and well out of sight that the three of them collapsed in laughter.
“That woman’s face was a picture,” chuckled Bernie. “She looked as if she was sucking a lemon when we first arrived, and by the end her jaw was practically on the table.”
“I can see what a formidable team you two must have been during all those years you worked together,” grinned Rhydian.
“Well, there may have been a bit of poetic licence in what I said just then,” said Bernie, “but Clifford really is the best keyboard player I’ve ever known.”
“All in the dim and distant past now,” smiled Clifford ruefully. “They were great days, though. Variety theatre was such fun then. Of course, I started in the business while you were still in short trousers, Bernie…”
“But Cliff, you taught me a lot. It was no good me calling myself a producer until I’d done my apprenticeship and learned the business inside out. We had some tough times, didn’t we? I’m not sure I’d have stuck with it without your encouragement. You certainly set me on the right road.”
“And then television claimed you, and that was that. And now you’re an agent…”
“It’s a much easier life, believe me, especially when I have superb artistes like Rhydian here to look after.”
“Well, I’m grateful to you both for playing along with my little plan. I enjoyed having my rather humble professional career rocketed to dizzy heights.”
“Dinner tonight then?”
“Half seven it is!”
And with one last conspiratorial grin at each other, they parted company.
“I’m not asleep, Claire. Just resting my eyes…”
Harry had heard his great-niece tiptoe into his cabin to peer down on him as he lay stretched out on his bed, the Daily Programme sheet still clasped to his chest where it had fallen as he’d started to doze off.
“You OK?” Concern was written all over Claire’s face. “You’re not finding all these visits too much?”
Harry turned his head to smile at her. “Not at all. My mind and heart are loving every minute of it. It’s just my old bones that are struggling to keep up.”
“You probably need to find ways to pace yourself – perhaps give some of the visits and meetings a miss, so you have enough energy for the occasions that are really special to you?”
