The orchestra was rehearsing Britten’s Saint Nicholas. She heard a familiar tenor voice. Gregory Truscott, a rising opera star who had made time to pay one last visit. As she pulled open the oak door, Evelyn saw that conceited sculptor at work in the South aisle. He was painting a layer of preservative on an angel. He looked up as she stopped by a pillar and began to unpack her cello. He smiled and she mouthed a hello in reply. She made her way to her seat, flashed an apology at Peter and a glance at Seth. Her son was too intent to return it. Within seconds she too was rapt. The work posed no technical difficulties, and for the hours that remained until lunch, she entered willingly its iconic scenes of wondering faith. She remembered Venetia singing the part of a pickled boy at her school concert, and Seth playing the pleading introductory solo at one of his. In a beautiful church, with the sun emerging at last from the clouds, surrounded by people she admired, her ears full of favourite music, her thoughts daring occasionally to stray to her miraculous daughter, Evelyn found herself happier than she had been for months.
‘Lovely. Now just once more through number three and you can all go for a well-earned lunch.’
Peter seemed on good form. Jemima hissed at Evelyn.
‘Have you heard about the baby?’
‘What baby?’ asked Evelyn sharply.
‘Peter’s, I mean Helga’s and Peter’s. They’re going to buy one.’
‘What fun,’ she said dully, but relieved.
‘Gregory, if you wouldn’t mind, number three once more?’ Peter called the portly tenor back from the South aisle where he had been talking to the artist.
‘My parents died,’ sang Gregory.
‘All too soon I left the tranquil beauty of their home
And knew the wider world of man.
Poor man! I found him solitary, racked
By doubt; born, bred, doomed to die
In everlasting fear of everlasting death …’
Seth glanced to his right but found Roly walking out, impervious, picking something off his fingernail. They were dismissed for lunch. Please would they all be back on time to set an example to the chorus who, heaven help them, were to join them this afternoon? Tonight they would please take home and study the parts for Roger’s Cantata in preparation for tomorrow’s preliminary endeavours.
Evelyn carefully laid her cello on its side by her chair.
‘How did you get on with the doctor?’ Seth asked, ‘was it Robbie Fielding?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is he?’
‘Very well. He says Neesh has got a stomach infection and that she had better stay in bed for a few days – nothing more.’
‘Must have been a bad cashew. She’s been wolfing the things recently. There’s no need to look so worried.’ At his smile she raised one as well, with a mute cry of thanks for the lacunae of a Public School Education.
‘Let’s go and have some lunch.’
‘Yup,’ he replied, discreetly scanning the place as he followed her rapid steps. She met Roly in the porch.
‘Oh, Mrs Peake?’
‘Actually, I asked Seth if he’d give me a hand with some lifting in the break.’
As Seth caught up he could see that she was taken aback.
‘Go ahead,’ she answered, ‘borrow him. But I want him back in one piece.’
Roly turned into the church and found him.
‘Clever excuse,’ Seth smiled.
‘No. In fact I do need a hand. Could you help me pull this old girl outside?’ Mortified, Seth took hold of the head while Roly held the feet of one of the old figures that had yet to be treated with preservative, and together they bore her, crumbling, into the churchyard.
‘It’s quite true, what they were saying yesterday,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Oh. Just people before the first rehearsal began yesterday morning. They were saying how like yours the angel’s hair was. It is.’
Roly laughed stiffly as they lowered the wood on to a tarpaulin.
‘No,’ he said. Then he looked up and met the feel of Seth’s eyes and repeated, no laugh in his voice, ‘No, Seth.’
‘What?’
‘You’re too young. OK?’
Seth had no time to reply, as Mother had followed them out.
‘So this is where you’ve been working.’
‘Hello,’ said Roly. A sixth-former on Parents’ Day.
‘I promise I won’t tell a soul, otherwise you’ll be bothered by women asking for busts of their children.’ The two of them chuckled obsequiously. ‘In fact, I have come to talk business, but I promise I don’t want a bust of Venetia. I don’t want one of this either, actually.’ She placed a hand on Seth’s shoulders as she spoke and he felt about twelve, forced back into shorts. He stood trapped and prickling, showing interest in the sea while his mother talked commissions. By an effort of will he managed not to look at MacGuire once for the rest of the interview. Evelyn was not long in finishing.
‘Oh well, if you’re going to be in London now, instead of Edinburgh, that makes you much more accessible. Come on, darling, we must go and get you something to eat.’ She released Seth and he walked back into the cool of the nave.
On the doorstep, Evelyn turned for a moment and caught Roland MacGuire staring at her, or past her. She turned back quickly and went after her child. They walked in silence across the church and headed for cottage number two where lunch was laid out on trestle tables, and where chorus and orchestra would chat over bread and cheese about the morning’s work. They joined the queue. Evelyn felt a barrier. Seth was sulking about something. Since Venetia was ill, he must be jealous. She would compensate with loving cheer.
‘Seth?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Is Roland MacGuire a terribly sad person, or is that just me being romantic?’
‘Just you being romantic. He’s distantly arrogant and secure. He’s talented and he knows it. I think he’s one of those people who will survive all their lives without anyone’s help.’
‘Oh dear.’
Seth wanted to cry, but talked about how perfect the Stilton looked. He followed the crowd into the orchard. Bronwen marched up to him, her plate laden.
‘Bloody good grub,’ she declared, ‘Only bloody good thing about the festival so far. Ha! You’re looking glum. Want to talk about it?’ Seth opened his mouth to speak then just smiled wanly, waving a piece of baguette. ‘Look,’ she continued, ‘I’ve got a schedule here and it’s only semichorus and leaders wanted for tomorrow afternoon for Roger Whoodlum’s monstrosity, which means neither you nor me. I’m going to walk along the coast to Pendarth Castle where I shall eat a bag of flapjacks and drink a bottle of scrumpy, and you’re going to come too.’
The Madwoman of Saint Jacobs clicked her tongue and went to discuss Liszt’s sex-life with Grigor. The breezy charity of a Matron. Seth forced down a piece of Stilton to find that it was really very fine, and went to join his mother in the shade of a pear tree.