Every year the Royal Opera House put on a Christmas pantomime. Usually it was Mother Goose, but this year, in honour of the great clown Quigley, the director, Mr Gautier, had decided a new show was required to celebrate his talents. Quigley was one of the most famous clowns of his day and he was to play the Harlequin. Mr Gautier had commissioned Peter Tias to design the scenery and costumes. Massini had written seven beautiful songs, all with memorable tunes.
The auditions had gone well but Mr Gautier hadn’t yet found a girl who could play the part of Columbine – and, most importantly, a girl who could sing.
Much against his better judgement he had been forced to ask Madame Sabina if she might consider the part.
Unwisely, he had said, ‘Of course, the role will have to be rewritten for an older singer…’ and the diva had grabbed a vase and thrown it at him, missing him by a whisker.
Mr Gautier instantly remembered why he never wanted to work with the wretched woman again.
‘You expect me – ME – to share the stage with a cheap, fairground clown?’ she’d shrieked.
This referred to the fact that every summer Quigley performed to a packed theatre in the park in the city of C—. More people had seen him perform than had ever seen Madame Sabina Petrova.
Mr Gautier had hoped that there might be a nightingale in the wings that morning. He had been bitterly disappointed to find flocks of web-footed ducklings, their pushy mothers all hissing that their little loves were about to turn into swans. The last girl had a voice that a seagull would have been ashamed of and she and her mother left in tears.
The director sat in the auditorium in a sea of red plush velvet. Next to him was Quigley, a long, gangly man who had the gift of carving the air around him into geometric shapes. It was said there wasn’t a bone in his body that couldn’t bend two ways. He was in his Harlequin costume, as he was every morning, without the mask but wearing the clown’s hat.
‘Surely,’ he said, ‘in the whole city of C— there must be at least one child with a voice that doesn’t sound like fingernails on a blackboard.’
‘I don’t know where these children come from,’ said Mr Gautier. ‘Have any of them even had a singing lesson before they think they can take to the boards?’ He called to Massini who was seated at the piano on stage. ‘I’ve had enough. Time is against us. Perhaps we’ll have to rethink the songs.’
‘No,’ said Massini. ‘You can’t do that to me.’
‘I could sing them,’ said Quigley.
‘Absolutely not!’ shouted Massini.
Quigley laughed. ‘Come on, Massini. You can’t be so serious all the time. This show is supposed to be—’
‘Lunch,’ said Mr Gautier, gathering up his gloves, hat and coat from the seat next to him. ‘We’ll meet back here, at… let’s say… two.’
‘Wait,’ came a voice from the wings.
Celeste had been standing there, listening, Hildegard’s hand gripped in hers.
‘Hildegard can sing,’ she called, stepping onto the stage.
‘Is that you, Maria?’ said Mr Gautier. ‘It’s good to see you’re walking. How do you feel?’
‘Much better, thank you. Please, Mr Gautier, will you let her audition?’
‘My dear girl, I’ve had enough for one morning.’ Then she heard him say to Quigley, ‘Working with the mother is bad enough. I think we’ll leave it. Lunch, my old friend.’ He patted the clown on the back.
‘They don’t want anything to do with me,’ said Hildegard to Celeste.
The footlights were blinding, and Celeste wasn’t sure if the director and the clown had already left the auditorium.
But still she spoke into the darkness. ‘Please, Mr Gautier, at least hear her. You won’t be disappointed.’
There was no answer but Massini handed Hildegard a song sheet.
‘You can read music, can’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Hildegard.
‘Try Columbine’s Lament,’ he said.
Celeste had seen a flash of light as the door at the back of the auditorium was opened and closed. She was about to say there was no point as Mr Gautier and Quigley had left, but Massini sat down at the piano.
‘When you’re ready, Hildegard,’ he said.
Hildegard had been shaking with nerves but stopped the second Massini played the first notes.
Celeste watched her as her voice, hesitant to begin with, took flight. With every breath, Hildegard’s confidence grew. She closed her eyes as her voice soared, filling the auditorium with a glorious, rich, velvety sound before it fell with a sob that was at the heart of the song. Her voice rose once more, higher than before, and without a single wrong note the song became hers.
Even those working backstage, who usually took little notice of what was happening out front, stopped to listen. This was a voice with freshness to it, a sound that shivered one’s soul. Hildegard was transformed from an awkward girl into a singer who filled the song with so much yearning and emotion that even the composer was moved to tears.
When the last note died there was complete silence in the auditorium. Massini sat at the piano, unable to move. Hildegard opened her eyes, surprised to find herself where she was.
‘Bravo!’
‘Magnificent!’
Mr Gautier and Quigley shouted from the darkness and started to clap. ‘Bravo, Hildegard, my dear girl!’ said Mr Gautier. ‘What a voice, what a talent. The part is yours. We start rehearsals tomorrow. Can you be here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hildegard. ‘Mama says I can’t sing.’
Massini stood up at the piano and bowed to her. ‘You have a voice given to you by the angels,’ he said.
Quigley giggled. ‘Which is a lot more than can be said for your mama.’
Mr Gautier cleared his throat and tried to control his excitement.
‘Can you learn the songs tonight?’ he asked.
Hildegard almost dared not speak in case the magic was broken. She nodded.
‘Very good,’ said Mr Gautier.
Hildegard came off the stage in a daze. ‘My feet – are they touching the ground?’ she asked Celeste.
‘Yes,’ said Celeste. ‘Well, not quite. You did it – you even made Massini weep.’
‘What shall I do now?’ said Hildegard. ‘What will Anna say? We might all be in terrible trouble.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Celeste. ‘Mr Gautier has given you the part of Columbine – what can your mama do? Anna, I know, will be very proud of you.’
Once they were back in the dressing-room, Hildegard said, almost in a whisper, ‘Thank you.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Celeste. ‘You did, though.’
Hildegard stared at herself in the mirror.
‘I look the same,’ she said, ‘but inside I don’t feel the same. I think I could fly.’
‘Try not to,’ said Celeste. ‘I’m going to find Viggo.’
‘No, no, please – you can’t leave me,’ said Hildegard. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for Anna together? What if Mama…’ She stopped. ‘If I have a voice as they – as you – tell me, I promise one thing. I will never be like my mother, never. I think I’ve been horrid to you and I’m sorry.’
Celeste laughed. ‘No, you won’t be like her. You’ll be like Hildegard.’
