Emma had never seen Aidan so flustered. He was having trouble looking between his music and the singers. He lost his place more than once.
She saw the Russian dancers roll their eyes. This was obviously not what they were used to.
The orchestra was more or less ignoring his baton, and she had to say they sounded all the better for it. But unfortunately, orchestra and choir were rarely in time with each other.
There was an unpleasant spat with a trombonist, who was engaging in some obviously facetious banter with his neighbour. They were rehearsing the Elgar at the time, the accompaniment to which was scored for two violins and piano, and so did not call for the full orchestra. The brass section therefore sat idle, and this particular musician had evidently grown bored with Aidan’s frequent stopping and starting. The prospect of Elgar himself being in the audience had clearly put the wind up him and he was desperate to bring off the delicate effect of the refrain. It was proving more difficult than he might have hoped and Aidan had already reduced Gladys Caldwell to tears by singling her out for criticism.
Aidan stood for a moment peering over the top of his spectacle lenses, waiting for the trombonist’s joke to play itself out. The musician in question, realizing that he was the object of his conductor’s attention, first raised his eyebrows in mock contrition, and then gave a sarcastic grin.
‘Thank you. Yes, you, sir. This kind of behaviour may be acceptable in the tap room of the Flask, but I tell you I will not tolerate it in my orchestra. I expect my musicians to behave with discipline and decorum at all times, even when they are not required to participate in a particular piece. It makes it very difficult for those who are trying to rehearse if they must do so against this background of chatter and mockery. No doubt you think you are better than a choir of amateurs. But let me tell you, I have been listening to you. Yes, you. I have heard a number of decidedly off notes coming from your direction. I have ears, you know. Slurred speech is deplorable enough, but slurred playing is beyond the pale. I expect, no, I demand that my musicians be sober and proficient when they present themselves to perform in a concert for which they are receiving professional remuneration.’
There was a booming heckle from the basses. ‘So he’s getting paid, is he?’
Aidan was on the verge of losing control completely. It did not help when Émile Boland, who had consented to play the first violin part, chipped in. ‘Perhaps it is you who are drunk.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Boland waved his bow around erratically. ‘You cannot keep time. That is what you are supposed to do, I think? You are the conductor, no? But it is not consistent. You are too slow, you are too fast. You are too fast, you are too slow.’ Boland shook his head disparagingly. ‘And I think it is not wise for a conductor to insult the members of the orchestra whom he wishes to play for him. No?’
Bows were tapped against music stands, laps slapped, and even feet stamped in approval of this opinion.
Aidan’s mouth gaped hopelessly. He looked lost, stricken, betrayed. He had always placed great store in the approval of those he considered his ‘fellow musicians’. Despite a slightly condescending view of the status of professional players, there was no doubt that he valued their opinion and considered them his peers in music, if not in other matters. But now it was as if the veil had been drawn back. He glimpsed for the first time the contempt in which these men and women had always held him.
No, not even now did Emma allow herself to feel sorry for him. Not even when he flashed her a quick imploring glance. It was an instinctive moment. His habit to look to her for support and validation when things got especially sticky. Behind it was his assumption that, no matter what he did, no matter how badly he treated her, she would always acknowledge his precedence in music. He could count on her to affirm his talent. And if not her, then who? In that look was revealed the microscopic nucleus of self-doubt that he was normally so adept at concealing, from himself as much as from anyone.
This time she gave him nothing back. She kept her face stony and unresponsive, staring straight at him, but not meeting his gaze any more than a statue might. And then she turned from him, feeling a tiny spasm kink up the corner of her mouth.