‘Splendid. Yes. Very good, Cavendish.’
Sir Aidan Fonthill, seated at the Danemann grand piano in the room he liked to call his studio, held a fresh proof of the concert programme at various distances from his nose to try to bring it into focus. He did possess a pair of reading glasses but didn’t like to wear them, not in front of other people, especially not those who were younger than him. Most particularly, not in front of young ladies. But also not in front of younger men, such as Cavendish.
In truth, he did not know for sure that Cavendish was younger than him, but suspected he was. Cavendish was one of those chaps who seemed to have been born middle-aged. Bit of a stuffed shirt, truth be told. A stickler, you might say. Sir Aidan supposed it went with the territory. Accountant. Clever with numbers, but dull. No imagination. The balding head didn’t help. Sir Aidan thought proudly of his own full head of sand-coloured hair. He sported a foppish fringe that had to be repeatedly swept from his eyes. He eschewed facial hair too, believing a clean-shaven face suited the varsity look he was trying to cultivate. It was his little weakness that he could not pass a mirror without looking into it. Not as gratifying an activity as it once had been, he had to admit, but it was generally enough to reassure him that he still had ‘it’.
Sir Aidan rose from the piano and transferred to his desk, on the grounds that it had more light being situated beneath the window. In truth there was not much light to be had anywhere today. Sir Aidan glanced up to take in the view of the garden. It was not looking its best at the moment. The wind and rain had given the stark wintry plants a battering. He placed the programme down on the green leather-topped desk and twiddled distractedly with a signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. The signet itself was of a trefoil or shamrock, a reference to his family’s Irish origins. It was a habit he had, this obsessive turning of the ring, whenever he was preoccupied.
A lot of the younger chaps had signed up, which was dashed inconvenient as it left the tenors and basses severely depleted. But one could hardly blame them. The call to arms was hard to resist. So perhaps Cavendish wasn’t as young as all that. Or perhaps he was a coward. You would have thought he would have been glad to get away from that wife of his. Of course, she was always very pleasant to Sir Aidan, even if it was in that dreadful, simpering way she had. He winced a little at the thought of her and gave Cavendish a quick, pitying look. By all accounts, she made Cavendish’s life hell.
But the man had a decent enough voice, and so Sir Aidan was grateful for whatever it was that kept him out of the army.
He liked to think that, had he been a younger man, he would have applied for a commission himself. But it remained a hypothetical question. He was honest enough to acknowledge that he was relieved, rather than frustrated, that it need never be put to the test. He felt that he had work to do, important work, which was best done in a civilian capacity.
He read the front of the programme and nodded approvingly.
‘And how are ticket sales going, do we know?’
Cavendish’s answer was to clear his throat, a curiously despondent sound, similar to the sound of the rain hurtling into the windowpanes. He stood by the fire, on the other side of the piano, half-hidden by it, warming the filthy weather out of his trouser legs.
Tea had been brought. On a silver tray – another mirror for Sir Aidan’s opportunistic vanity, to go with the large one hanging over the mantelpiece.
‘We are virtually sold out.’ Cavendish’s tone was inexplicably morose.
Sir Aidan put the programme to one side and looked round at the treasurer from his green leather-topped desk. ‘Splendid.’
Cavendish grimaced. ‘Is it?’
‘Of course it is! Why would it not be? We want to sell as many tickets as possible, do we not? To raise as much money as possible for …’ Sir Aidan consulted the programme again. ‘For the refugees.’
‘Yes, but … at the last rehearsal …’
‘What?’
Sir Aidan wished Cavendish would stop pulling those faces. ‘Are you quite all right, Cavendish? You look like you’re suffering from indigestion.’
‘We sounded awful,’ said Cavendish bluntly. ‘It doesn’t help that we’re missing so many of our best singers. There are all the men we have lost. And Miss Seddon, of course. The sopranos are certainly feeling her absence.’
Now Sir Aidan was the one to grimace. ‘There’s still work to do. I grant you that. But it will all come together. It always does.’
‘It certainly is a shame about Miss Seddon, though.’
Sir Aidan’s expression settled into a frown. What the devil was Cavendish getting at, bringing up Anna like that? He let it go, however. The fellow’s impertinence did not merit a response.
Cavendish pressed on in his insistent, carping drone, ‘The next rehearsal will be with the orchestra and the professionals. I don’t think we’re ready, do you?’
‘I can always call for extra rehearsals if we need it. It would help if people would learn the music, you know.’
But Cavendish was not reassured. ‘I fear this time we may have bitten off too much.’
‘Nonsense.’ Sir Aidan picked up the programme again and opened it. ‘There’s nothing here that any half-decent choir shouldn’t be able to sing with their eyes closed.’
‘There will be paying members of the public coming along to this. The press may well be there. We don’t want to embarrass ourselves.’
‘We won’t, Cavendish!’ Sir Aidan insisted forcefully. ‘Good grief, you’re such an old woman. If anyone should be worried, it ought to be me. It’s my reputation on the line. I am the one who has pulled strings to ensure the participation of our distinguished guest performers. I have also managed to secure the attendance of a certain very important personage.’
‘He’s coming, is he? Churchill?’
‘The First Lord of the Admiralty has expressed that intention to me, yes.’
‘Ah, an intention.’
‘Winnie won’t let me down.’
‘Winnie now, is it?’
‘We were at school together.’
‘So you said. I expect a lot of other boys were too.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Are you sure he remembers you?’
‘He remembers me.’
Cavendish shook his head woefully. Really, it was hardly surprising that his wife treated him so roughly. He would have brought out the harridan in the saintliest of women. The man was a wet blanket.
‘You have nothing to worry about,’ insisted Sir Aidan. ‘He will be there.’
‘That’s just what I am worried about. It’s making the choir nervous, the thought of performing in front of such a prominent individual. We are not at our best under such circumstances.’
‘On the contrary, I am confident that the presence of such notables will inspire the choir to new heights of excellence. I certainly hope so, for I am also expecting the presence of another celebrity in the audience. One whom I understand to have the most exacting musical standards.’
‘Who?’ Cavendish asked warily.
‘Sir Edward Elgar.’
Cavendish’s eyes bulged. ‘You do know we’re performing one of his pieces?’
‘Naturally. That’s why I put it in the programme. To entice him. A local choir singing his Christmas Greeting in a Christmas concert? He won’t be able to resist.’
Cavendish shook his head. ‘This won’t end well.’
‘Don’t be such a doom-monger, Cavendish. Mark my words, this concert will put us on the map. I see it leading to all manner of invitations and opportunities.’
‘For you?’
‘For the choir. Festivals, even the Proms – who can say?’
‘Are we ready for that?’
Sir Aidan ignored the question. ‘And in the meantime, we will be supporting a very worthy cause. How much have we raised already, by the way?’
‘I don’t have the figures with me.’
‘Roughly. Off the top of your head. You must have some idea.’
‘I think we are close to two hundred.’
‘Seats?’
‘Pounds.’
Sir Aidan nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent, excellent!’
‘The residents of Hampstead have been most generous. Many have paid in excess of the ticket price. There are some expenses that must be met out of this, of course. The hire of the harpsichord, for example. And there are the new Performing Right Society fees to be paid. But we are fortunate in that our principal artists have agreed to appear pro bono.’
‘But this is excellent news, Cavendish. It calls for a celebration, do you not think? Would you care for a brandy and soda?’
Cavendish seemed to recoil from the suggestion. A mistrustful, worried look entered his eyes. He muttered a weak demurral.
Sir Aidan rose from his desk with a spring in his step. He crossed to a glass-fronted cabinet displaying a collection of crystal decanters, containing various levels of subtly different dark-hued liqueurs. This was the thing to do with Cavendish, loosen him up a little, flatter him with attention, make him feel important. Fix him a drink, in other words.
Sir Aidan held out a satisfyingly weighty cut-glass tumbler, filled with effervescent amber liquid. He breathed in its intoxicating whiff as he surrendered it. ‘I may incur some expenses in relation to the concert myself.’ He was careful not to look at the treasurer as he said this.
Cavendish’s dubious expression sharpened into out-and-out suspicion. ‘What expenses?’
‘Small, small expenses. I wouldn’t want to trouble you with the details. You already have so much on your plate. Perhaps the easiest thing would be for you to pre-sign one or two cheques for me …’ Seeing the look of horror on the treasurer’s face, Sir Aidan quickly changed the subject. ‘How is Ursula?’
He went back to the cabinet for his own drink, raising his glass with what he hoped was a broad, easy smile. In fact, he found that it took considerable effort to pull it off. And he still could not look his treasurer in the eye.
That dark tone was still in the treasurer’s voice. ‘Why do you ask?’
There was something eating Cavendish, that much was clear. Sir Aidan had no wish to get to the bottom of it. Something to do with his wife, no doubt. They must have had another argument. He made a nonchalant gesture with one hand. ‘Good old Ursula. She really is a brick.’ What he hoped to achieve by these bland observations, he really had no idea.
He felt the man’s gaze boring into him, to the point that he could not ignore it any longer. He glanced up, startled by the glare of animosity that was directed at him.
Sir Aidan frowned and gave a brief, bewildered shake of the head, before dipping his eyes to focus on his suddenly very interesting drink.