ON THURSDAY MORNING, the day he’d arranged to visit his parents, Mary’s first letters arrived, two long envelopes. As he opened them he checked the dates, a day apart, to make sure he read them in the right order.
She was well. She had been met at the airport, fed and put early into a comfortable bed by a decent well-to-do couple who had some connection with the operatic venture. Next day, the woman, Muriel Winckler, had driven her to the university and left her. There she learned that they had three weeks to prepare Semele, the only opera they were doing. The administrator had shown her their schedule and later in the afternoon she had sung to Redvers Gage and Ulrich Fenster, who had talked to her in an interesting way about the songs, and had made some suggestions, said they would hear her again next day when she was less tired. Gage was a dark, taciturn young man, balding with curls, who stared you out, and then smiled.
She had met the rest of the company, who seemed pleasant. One or two had been very nice to her. She was temporarily in a hostel for overseas students, as far as she could make out, not far from the practice hall in the music school. There had never been any idea of producing more than one opera, and that had been known from the beginning. The producer man Gage, who was very lively indeed, seemed in sole charge. She’d let him know further about developments. She still felt tired and dazed, but she missed him. All her love.
The second letter sketched a second audition. Ulrich had listened to her again that morning, for twenty minutes, a couple of songs, again had made one or two suggestions about recitatives and said they’d both hear her again after lunch. In the afternoon, she, Ulrich, Red Gage, a pianist called Eddie and another man, Si Somebody, had piled into a car, dashed elsewhere on the campus into some large assembly hall and there she’d sung again. Gage had asked her to do one or two things, operatic poses, walking across the place diagonally, falling to her knees and then they’d asked her to sing again. She went through ‘Ah me, too late I now repent my pride and impious vanity’, while the three men sat at the back, talking loudly, paying no attention to her. When she’d finished they’d continued their discussion, leaving her standing there. She had felt frightened, she said, and angry, and after a bit had walked over to the accompanist, who spoke with an American accent so thick she could barely understand him, to ask what they were on with. He was noncommittal at first, but said in the end that it was all chaos, and always would be, until they could make up their minds. Gage had then come forward and asked if she would mind singing the first part of the song again, right back to the far wall, just standing there, fortissimo. The pianist had asked if he should wheel his piano nearer to her, but had been told it didn’t matter.
‘I’m twen’y-five medres away,’ he had protested.
‘Play louder, then,’ Gage had said, serious in his misunderstanding. ‘I’ve heard you.’ He’d then laughed, blackly, bleakly.
She’d sung and Fenster had waved a hand in thanks or dismissal as he turned to his colleagues again. Gage straddled a chair, grasping the back as if he’d shake it off. The third personage, Simon, had talked in a deep voice. From where she stood she could not make out a word, but noted that on occasion all three yammered away together. She had just found a seat, parked there trembling, when a fourth man joined the group. Almost immediately Gage detached himself, walked easily towards her, wobbling slightly as if his shoes needed heeling, and said, ‘That was beautiful, beautiful. We loved it. But I shall have to ask you to do it again. I’m sorry, honey, but . . .’
She had shrugged, she said, kept mum. Gage instructed Ed who had been quietly improvising jazz. Mary sang again, but not well. The quartet at the far end of the hall rudely chattered. She could have kicked somebody, but immediately the newcomer had walked towards her; it took him an hour.
‘Robert Harnack,’ he announced. ‘Superb, Miss Blackwall, superb. We’re lucky, and I don’t say that often. Not in my nature.’ He had shaken her hand, his was large and dry, and nodded, smiling, muttered more congratulatory phrases and stalked off, past the other three without a word.
She, seeing nothing further happened, Gage and colleagues at least were standing, made for Eddie, asked him who Harnack was.
‘Search me,’ he had answered. ‘Some professor, I guess.’
Suddenly, this was described in a later letter, she raked over this first day or two in reply to the many questions David scribbled at her, she began to whistle. Ever since childhood she had been competent with a powerful, sweet sound, and she, standing at the back of the upright piano, let herself into Gershwin’s ‘Summer time, and the livin’ is easy’. She had not finished the first line before Eddie had joined her with the piano, straight into key, rhythmically powerful but quiet, creative, finding his way into variation but supporting in a brilliance of subdued opposition the liquid line of the air above. Mary finished, Ed continued, chirping in the top register of his piano as if to mock the clarity, the lazy insouciance of the solo. He looked at her, pursing his lips, inviting her to another burst, but she turned away. ‘I hadn’t come three thousand miles to do music-hall turns,’ she’d written.
The whistling, unlike her singing, had silenced the three men at the back. Eddie, registering a comical dismay at her refusal, signed off with a large, splayed, unfinished, sustained arpeggio. Fenster came across; he hurried now, and hauled his glasses off as if they irritated his prominent nose. All American musicians have large conks, she had comforted herself, big beaks. He was smiling with real pleasure, at the Porgy and Bess, she imagined.
‘We’d like you to sing the part of Semele for us,’ he had said, without preamble. She had not answered. ‘You will, I know.’
Eddie was beaming; she noticed that. Gage and Si had joined Ulrich. Still she said not a word, near weeping. Her silence disconcerted the men; they’d expected an outburst of joy, kissings, hugs, screams perhaps, and this pale beauty, standing with her back now to the piano, defending it, keeping their world at arm’s length puzzled them.
‘Sorry we were so long,’ Gage said, coming forward, taking both her hands. ‘We knew, but we didn’t believe it.’
That made no sense to her.
‘I was touched,’ Si said. He looked younger from this distance in spite of baldness, and his voice sounded resonantly deep. ‘As I did not expect.’
A tear forced itself out of the corner of her left eye, trickled, seemed enormous. Si nodded approval.
Then the hand-shaking and kisses began. Gage disappeared.
Fenster, returning to his normal fidgeting, issued instructions. She could have Eddie and a studio the whole of the next day; he’d give her an hour on Saturday afternoon, Sunday was her own unless Red had different ideas, and on Monday they’d start putting it on stage. The first performance would be mounted, here, a fortnight on Saturday.
‘We haven’t much time,’ Fenster said. ‘Red asks a great deal of us.’
The men led her triumphantly back to the car.
Much of this David learned later, but from the first two sketchy letters he caught something of his wife’s apprehension and excitement, and, he suspected, her stubborn habits, her failure to understand exaggeration. She would sing her heart out for her mentors, he knew, but would remain unconvinced that her performance changed the world, even minutely. What these men made of that he’d learn, in time, perhaps he feared only when they had broken her. To him, striding his streets or carpets, rereading the thin sheets, success appeared now more a question of character than musical ability. And Mary lacked pliability. Thus far, and no farther was her motto. Fool’s gold shone prettily, and none the worse for that, but lacked market value. Operatic performance, even at a high level, fell short of the dimensions of life. She, he, both knew it; in the world of art nobody did, or nobody admitted it.
He carried the letters to his parents’ house in a flush of ambivalence, questioning his motives. The parents read the letters carefully, his father shifting his glasses up and down his nose.
‘Is that the leading part?’ Horace asked his wife. He handed the envelope back to his son; his perusal had been slower than Joan’s, with his eyes half-narrowed. ‘Well?’ Suddenly to his son.
David voiced his doubts; Horace looked towards his wife; Joan did not speak.
‘She’s made her mark by the sound of it,’ Horace pronounced. ‘Yes. I’m glad.’
‘She’ll be bemused,’ Joan told them. ‘Won’t know what she’s about, but she’s still able to give a good performance. That’s the test. When you’re half dead with jetlag or headache or a cold or homesickness you can stand up and sing as if you’re on top of the world.’
David enjoyed the evening. His father talked about his American trips, ventured a few generalizations about people. Joan was quieter than usual, left the room to make lemonade for her son.
‘Is Ma all right?’ David asked. He was never sure these days what to call his mother.
‘Why?’
‘She’s not saying much.’
‘She’s living that life with Mary. I’m not joking. I rang up some friends last night in New York, and made inquiries about nipping across to hear Mary sing once she starts. The Feinsteins will put us up.’
‘Does Ma know you’ve done this?’
‘She suggested it.’
‘And you’ve got the time?’
‘I’m nearly retired. Or I shall be when I’ve finished with lawyers and accountants. Even so, I can take a week off now without noticing it.’
‘And you’ll fly to America just to hear one performance?’
‘To see Mary. Yes. If I have a bob or two, I might as well spend it.’ He picked a boxed set from a cabinet. ‘Your mother brought it in this morning. Been on order. So we shall get to know it.’ He displayed the title: Semele. ‘She was pretty certain Mary would do well.’
‘More than I was.’
‘She’s confidence . . .’
‘There’s so much luck . . .’
‘Fortune favours the brave.’ Horace’s foxy grin neither displeased nor comforted his son. ‘We’ll let you know how she is.’
As he left Joan kissed him, she did not always, saying, ‘Write some good long letters, now, David, all about the weather, and the school, and the orchestra. It’s important.’ He left the house cheered.
For the next week transatlantic silence rankled, and though David warned himself that Mary was busy, tired out, waiting for his first letters, the nondelivery disheartened him each morning.
On the Saturday morning, having waited for the postman, who brought bills and appeals, he did his shopping, called in at the library. The sun shone coldly bright; windows misted; he was in no hurry though the afternoon and evening would be taken up by rehearsal and performance in Newark. He walked home circuitously.
This way he had to pass a factory once owned by a friend of his father’s. The office premises on the front were deserted, panes dirty or holed. As a sixth former he had glanced in the place, certain that well-dressed young women, with fashionable bright hairstyles, would mince round with folders, cock their heads to take phone calls, frown fetchingly at typewriters under a brilliancy of bar lights. Now dirt, and darkness, as he peered in, not a stick of furniture, rubble about the floor, electrical fittings all disconnected. The golden letters of the name Thomas Bliss and Son Ltd, which had stretched block length, were dismantled, leaving only black boltmarks in the brick. The main gates, grandly double, bright with carved and polished panels in their heyday, had gone, leaving the walls gashed, molested as if the doors had been wrenched off, elaborate craftmanship firewood from that moment.
He stood staring in through the gap by a board with a roughly chalked legend: Reclaimed Timber for Sale. Apply within. At the other side of the courtyard and loading bays, an enormous earth-shifting machine towered ready to clear debris. Two men lounged, talking; one bonfire sent up a pillar of smoke, another flamed but darkly; there was no activity. The main block of the factory was being demolished, beginning with the left corner where the outside walls had been battered into hillocks of bricks but where the first floor hung tottering, at a crazy angle, still holding its shape, but hirsute with spikes of broken laths or floorboards. Presumably it would sag thus until work began on Monday, unless it collapsed. The yard was littered with lengths of wood, rubble, concrete nuggets; every surface was dulled with dust.
Hooting behind him startled David. A mini, driven by a young woman, darted in.
‘They’re getting on with it,’ a passer-by opined.
‘What’s going to happen?’
‘Flats.’
‘They’re going to pull it all down, then?’
‘They are. Every brick. My, some jobs went west when they shut down.’
‘How long ago is that?’
‘Been standin’ derelict a twelvemonth, if not more.’
The man lifted his cloth cap to scratch his head, moved on without another word. David was utterly surprised by the information for he felt certain that he and Mary had stood here watching the lorries, enjoying the ordered bustle, less than a year ago. He remembered telling her of the golden-haired beauties in the office, and while they were still laughing she had slipped back to glance in.
‘Nothing to write home about,’ she reported. ‘All your fevered imagination.’
‘Don’t ruin it,’ he begged, mocking himself, and they had marched off, arm in arm, pleased with the exchange.
Yet at that time, whenever it was, negotiations must have been completed. The overalled workmen, the lorry drivers, the representatives and administrators with their line of smart cars along the right of the court, the golden girls, the managing director were proscribed, marked down for redundancy.
Shouldering his bag, he read a notice warning children and their parents that while demolition was going on, trespass was dangerous. The solidity of the wall on which the bill was stuck, the beauty of the bricklaying would soon disappear like the already fading chalk and black felt tip or aerosol spray graffiti. He consoled himself that people had to have somewhere to live.
Back home, he drank his coffee gloomily, and cursed out loud the phone call he was pleased to hear.
Anna Talbot, first inquiring about Mary’s progress, his health, then said she had a proposition to put to him.
‘Go on.’
‘Would you like to join a string quartet?’
‘Depends.’ He showed no enthusiasm. ‘Who are the others for a start?’
‘The Trent,’ she said.
‘Where’s Jon Mahon?’ The cellist.
‘Found himself a job in Australia. Can I come and see you?’
Anna’s connections were many: her husband James was senior musical adviser for the county; she sang in three choirs; her father taught counterpoint at the university. She enjoyed power, and interference. She and David had of course briefly been lovers when they were students at the Royal College. Without much enthusiasm he arranged to see her on Sunday evening.
Beautifully dressed, carefully made up, Anna Talbot arrived half an hour late, because she had been looking after her demanding mother-in-law, who had Sunday lunch with them each week. James had promised to drop in on some orchestral rehearsal and had thus left ‘the old biddy’ to be cared for. David spoke sympathetically as Anna gracefully fumed.
‘She’s not old, for one thing. Sixty-six, but acts as if she’s eighty. She’s a widow, and her husband carried her about for forty years. Now she expects Jim to do the same.’
‘Is she a musician?’
‘She thinks so. She’d tell you so.’ Anna accepted a martini and lemon, much iced. ‘I need that.’ Her tongue played snakily along her lips.
‘Is James the only child?’
‘No. There are three. He’s the only one who does anything for her.’
‘He’s the youngest?’
‘No, he isn’t. He’s the soft-hearted one. And even he goes out and leaves me to cope.’
David looked over this fashionable woman, now much at ease, from her neat head to her polished and buckled boots. She moved elegantly manicured hands with restraint; she smiled with effect, like the breaking through of the sun on a cloudy day; her silver earrings played with the light. She might well have just been photographed in the green, plain, neck-high dress for the glossy magazines. All was simple, admirable, artificial. Phrases like ‘bath-fresh’, ‘jewel-clear’, ‘true love’ scrambled into his head from advertisements. No one could be as perfect as she looked.
For five minutes she was distantly amusing about old Mrs Talbot, who had spent the afternoon in inquiring how her son wasted his time, why they had no children, and when the house was to be properly furnished. Bright-eyed Anna reported that the old hag had accused her of hardness of heart, slovenly habits and infertility.
‘And you said?’
‘Nothing for a while, and then, when she wouldn’t stop, “You’re not enjoying yourself here, are you? You know where the front door is. I’ll fetch your coat.”’
‘And?’
‘She burst into tears. Like a child. Really loud. Then she calms down, for the next half-hour just sits there and lets out gulps and sobs at strategic intervals.’
‘Is she unhappy?’
‘Must be, to act as she does. But I’m not giving in to her. I hide behind the Sunday papers.’
‘And James?’
‘Oh, he’s like his father. He lets the old harpy sink her talons in, but at least he’s learned some sense now. He keeps out of her way.’
‘Leaves you to it.’
‘No.’ Anna raised her glass. ‘This afternoon was unusual. But he won’t put himself at her bidding quite as he used to.’ She laughed, drank. ‘For Christ’s sake – I don’t know why I’m giving you all this. Tell me about Mary, now.
She listened to his account, sitting motionless, without questions until he had finished.
‘They’re just doing the Semele?’ she asked, thoughtfully.
‘So it seems.’
‘James says it’s very good, but static. He reckons we went to a performance, Sadlers Wells, but I can’t remember a thing about it. He might be right. He usually is.’ She drained her drink, accepted a refill. ‘Yes, super. Same again. Exactly right.’ Now she gently pinched her upper lip between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, quick, regular movements. He guessed she was more disturbed by the afternoon’s collision with her mother-in-law than she’d admit.
She described a trip she and James had made to the States during the summer, and said she would like to live there. This surprised him.
‘This country’s finished,’ she said, ‘done.’
He waited but she made no additions.
‘And James, what does he say?’
‘Nothing. The matter hasn’t been raised. I’m telling you what I think. But if a good job came up there, he’d be off smartly.’
‘And leave his mother?’
‘And leave his mother.’
She liked the people they had met in the States; there was plenty going on; the cultural spectrum was very much broader. She admitted the low standards of television and journalism, but said their best people were better than England’s, even James thought so. ‘There are signs of life.’
‘Are you serious?’ David asked.
Anna nodded her head, thoughts elsewhere. He found no comfort in her silence, but she brightened again, signalled the change by tapping with her nails on the arm of the chair.
‘My proposition, now,’ she began.
She had been talking to Frederick Payne, the leader of the Trent Quartet, a friend and protégé of her husband’s. The Trent had been doing particularly well, with plenty of engagements, had begun to attract notice in the right places when Jonathan Mahon, their cellist, had applied for a job in Australia, his wife’s country. This was not, Anna said, altogether a tragedy in that they were not satisfied with Mahon’s attitude; he was too casual by half. Quite likely they would have turned him out, and his replacement, Robert Knight, had already been chosen. James had fixed Knight up with a job as a peripatetic string teacher, but he could not start until September. That left the quartet with a dozen concerts to cancel. Worse, they had been considering turning professional in a year’s time, and this would now have to be put back if not altogether abandoned.
‘Why is there so little notice?’ he asked.
‘Wheels within wheels. Jon has been secretive about his new job; he just sprang it on them. They’ve not been hitting it off, and he thought he owed them nothing.’
‘Rightly?’
‘Probably. But they’re in serious trouble. They’ve been looking around. And James has. Things didn’t work out. Yours was the only serious name to come up locally. Jim said I knew you better than he did, and Freddy got on to me to ask you.’
‘Why didn’t he ask me himself?’
‘You’re a bit of a nob, you know. Cambridge and high school. And your father’s who he is.’
‘If they were in such dire straits, they’d ring me if I was Gregor Piatigorsky.’
‘I don’t know about that. It’s just a stand-in. You’ll be dropped in the summer. And it’ll mean one hell of a lot of hard graft.’
‘Why me?’ David asked.
‘Fred says you’re a good enough player and a good musician. You might have some ideas while you’re with ’em. If they can’t get you they’ll have to bring a scratch player up from London or the College or the Academy for concerts, and that’s goodbye to continuity or practice. And expensive.’
‘Supposing I’m not up to standard? I’ve hardly done any chamber music since I’ve been up here.’
‘Never crossed anybody’s mind. But then it’ll be the substitute players. Nothing else for it. What do you say now?’ She waited equably. ‘They’re good. You’ll enjoy it.’
‘I’m not so sure of that. When do they practise?’
‘Tuesdays, Thursdays, though they’ll change that to suit you. The concerts are all Saturdays and Sundays except one, that’s a Wednesday, I think. If they’re not giving a concert, they rehearse Sunday mornings as well.’
‘Where?’
‘At Cyril Barton’s. But they’ll come here, if that’s any easier. I’ve brought a list, a programme and Jon’s scores. They’ll simplify programmes, not play so much, I mean, if you want that. Shall I fetch the music in? It’s in the car.’
He said nothing; he wanted to be left alone. She seemed in no hurry.
‘Shall I?’
‘You just hold your horses. I shall have to think about this.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Why can’t this Knight man come up for the concerts?’
‘He’s busy, and he lives too far away. He’s somewhere in Scotland. He’s said to be outstandingly good.’
‘Where’s he from?’
‘He’s Scottish, but he was at the Royal Northern with Fred. Won no end of prizes.’
‘But hasn’t got anywhere?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She stopped him with a finger. ‘They genuinely look forward to his coming, but they dread it. He’s a terror, and they think they might have got slack while Mahon messed them about.’
‘Have they?’
‘I doubt it, but that’s why they don’t want ad hoc performances. They need three hard sessions a week. Another thing, Fred thinks you’ll be good for them. You’re not just a scraper. You’ve had professional teaching, but you’re a musician, a cultured man. You’ll keep ’em on their toes.’
‘Counting my wrong notes.’
‘No, David,’ Anna said. ‘It might sound flattering, but it’s somewhere near the truth.’
‘What’s in all this for you?’ he asked.
‘I like to throw my weight about. Two, I’m interested in them. I’m quite interested in you, believe it or not. I’d like to see if they can make a go of it full time. It’s likely, even in these hard days. Jim thinks so. And here you are, with a big gap in your life at the right moment, and plenty to offer. It’s what you need.’
‘I’ve hardly time to turn round now.’
‘That’s the sort of man to ask, I think.’
They sat silently; she knew when she had said enough.
‘It’s tempting,’ he said. ‘Let’s look at your list and see if there are any immovable clashes with the dates in my diary.’
‘Good.’ She sipped, rose slowly. He let her out of the front door, where he waited. She returned with a battered music case, the leather scarred, one strap broken so that the metal bar dangled loose. ‘Here you are.’
The first two concerts were strictly classical, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, he’d played them at some time, but then Debussy, Bartok, Shostakovich, Britten.
‘No Elliott Carter,’ he said. He sat silently again, picking at his chin. ‘I’d like to have a rehearsal with them, and see then what I think about it.’
‘That’s what I would have suggested. How about Tuesday?’
‘Right. They realize I shan’t have had any practice?’
‘I expect so.’ She straightened up. ‘That’s it, then. You’ll go to Cy Barton’s, will you? His address is on the programme.’
‘Cup of coffee?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’ll be great. I can’t tell you how pleased I am, David. You’ll be good for them.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘If they’re going professional, they’ve got to offer something out of the ordinary. You can help.’
As they drank their coffee he felt lassitude as if he’d been out walking all day, but at the same time a certain satisfaction in that he was about to parallel Mary’s venture in New York. He’d have to abandon serious schoolmastering for a few weeks, as she’d abandoned husband, home, country, but now he fiercely wanted to do it. If he could come up to scratch, so could his wife. Superstitiously he felt he helped her by taking on this burden.
Anna was chattering; he barely listened. She refused more coffee, said she must go.
‘Will James be home?’
‘He was there when I came out.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Reading something. Planning something. Drinking. He’ll be pleased you’ve decided as you have.’
She kissed him, and made off into the night.