As they drove home from St Meriadoc, Roly told her as much as he could remember about the play: about the three children who were trying to unwumble their parents and to reintroduce compassion into their troubled lives with the aid of stardust and a band of sprites.
‘I expect it would seem rather fanciful now,’ he said, ‘but then, during the First World War, the world must have seemed a dark and troubled place. The gist of it is that the children belong to a Star Society and their aim is to get as many people as possible out of their selves – their small locked-up wumbled lives, that is – and into the Star Cave where they are transformed by stardust. Metaphorically speaking, of course. It was hoped that the play might have the success of <W0I>Peter Pan<D> but it never quite caught on. The music wasn’t to blame, though. I remember that one reviewer wrote something like, “Whosoever is wumbled let him listen to Sir Edward Elgar.” I hope you’ll like it.’
As soon as they were home Roly went straight into his study and began to search for the tape. Even as he did so his earlier confidence began to leak away: he could see how desperate Daisy was becoming for any kind of inspiration and now feared that he had raised her hopes in vain. He almost wished that he wouldn’t find it but there it was, tucked in next to an early recording of Elgar’s Sea Pictures. Roly reminded himself that Daisy had loved the Sea Pictures, took the tape out and went downstairs.
‘Here,’ he said, giving it to her. ‘Don’t worry if it’s not what you’re after. It’s just something to think about. You can play it in here if you want to. I’m going to give the dogs a walk before supper.’
He simply couldn’t hang about, wondering if his instinct had been a good one. It was like recommending a film to a friend and then sitting through it with them, wondering what it was you’d ever liked about it and feeling hot with embarrassment. As he crossed the ford he wondered why he’d ever imagined that this particular music should be different from anything else he’d selected for her. Perhaps it was just a silly nonsense, tied up with being wumbled and the memories of his mother’s dancing, joyful grace.
It eased his tension to walk, the dogs racing ahead, barging and jostling in their delight at being out again after the long hours of confinement. He took the track up the hill, letting anxiety drain away from him as he climbed. The high moors, rising and flowing with bleak grandeur, looked like a dun-coloured sea from which the bony outline of Rough Tor cut sharp and clear against a dazzling sky where gold and scarlet ribbons, frayed into long curling cloudy banners, were blown across the evening sky. Hushed and still now, as long, mysterious shadows came creeping over turf and rock, the moors seemed to retreat, shrouded with an insubstantial secrecy.
Calling to the dogs, turning for home, Roly paused for a moment, giving delighted homage to a thin cockleshell moon, rocking her way up into the eastern sky, a bright star following in her wake like a little dory. The sweet air drifted up from the deep valleys and enclosed lanes, releasing its midsummer scent – honeysuckle, new-mown grass – into the warm evening. Silvery slate roofs and golden thatch nestled together in the gathering dusk, thick-walled granite and stone cottages leaning quiet and close, as the sun began to slip away beyond the western shore.
As Roly crossed the ford he could hear the waltzing, dancing music pouring from the open windows, and Daisy came to the door, her face bright with pleasure and excitement.
‘Oh, Roly, I love it,’ she cried. ‘My head is in a terrible jumble of ideas at the moment but, even so, I just know it’s what I’ve been waiting for.’
He wanted to shout with relief but managed to contain himself. ‘Don’t try to think about anything in particular yet. Just listen to it. Get a sense of it. There’s no rush.’
She stared at him, her eyes full of visions, and he went to prepare the supper whilst the music played on and Daisy moved about as if dazed, concentrating intently. As he listened to the final duet between the Laugher and the Organ-Grinder, instinctively waiting for the heart-jumping orchestral slide into the opening bars of ‘The First Nowell’, the chiming bells and the final triumphant clash of cymbals, Roly glanced at Daisy.
She stood quite still, hands clasped, and now her eyes were full of tears.
‘Silly, isn’t it?’ he said into the following silence. ‘But there’s something very moving about it. I don’t quite know how Elgar manages to combine nobility and spirituality in a popular and accessible way but that’s how it is for me.’
‘I love it,’ she said again, quietly this time. ‘I want to know more about it and I want to listen to it again. I seem to know bits of it.’
‘We’ll find out if there’s a CD,’ he said. ‘I’ll telephone Sheila or Nola at Opus first thing in the morning. They’ll know.’
‘What’s Opus?’
‘A wonderful classical music shop in Exeter. They’ll send us anything we need.’
‘I want to know more about the play and the characters. The music has masses of scope.’ She hesitated. ‘You don’t think Elgar might be a bit old-fashioned?’
‘I seem to remember that Ashton created a ballet to the Enigma Variations,’ he answered lightly. ‘Isn’t this Ashton’s centenary year? If Elgar was good enough for him he’s good enough for us.’
Daisy grinned at him, confidence restored, and he smiled back at her, full of thankfulness.
‘Go down to the ford and watch the moon rising,’ he said. ‘It’s a perfect evening, full of magic.’
She went to him and hugged him.
‘Thanks, Roly. Really, really, thanks. Can we listen to it again while we have supper?’
‘As often as you like. You’ve got twenty minutes. I’ll send Bevis down for you when supper’s ready.’
When Mim telephoned a few moments after Daisy had disappeared it seemed the most perfect timing.
‘Something good has happened,’ Roly told her jubilantly. ‘Things are beginning to move but I don’t want to give any secrets away. I expect she’ll want to tell you herself.’
‘I expect she will but I want to know what direction she’s taking. Don’t worry about being disloyal, Roly. You can rely on me to say all the right things when I speak to Daisy.’
‘She did say something about being old-fashioned,’ hedged Roly. He could feel Mim willing him to tell her the truth but had misgivings about whether it was his to tell. ‘She was a bit anxious about it. That’s probably a clue to the way her mind is working.’
‘It depends whether she’s muddling the sense of the word “old-fashioned” with “classical”. Some people might say that Swan Lake is old-fashioned but look what Matthew Bourne has done with it. Or what about <W0I>The Nutcracker<D>? There are often three productions of that in London each Christmas running at the same time. We did a very modern piece for the Charity Matinée last year so I shall be happy with something different. So is that all we know? Come on, Roly. Forewarned is forearmed. If Daisy is going down the wrong path I can let her down more lightly if I’m prepared for it.’
Roly gave in. ‘She’s been listening to Elgar’s incidental music for The Starlight Express. She loves it but she’s only heard it right through once. She says she needs to listen to it lots more . . . Are you there, Mim?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She gave a little reminiscent chuckle. ‘“The Waltz of the Blue-Eyes Fairy” and the dear old Organ-Grinder. It’s years since I heard that music. It was one of Mother’s favourites, wasn’t it? I remember her dancing, whirling me round in her arms.’
‘That’s what made me think about it. But nothing’s set in stone yet, I wouldn’t want you to think that, and I know Daisy will want to talk it over with you.’
‘Don’t panic. It was mean of me to ask you but I’ve got Jane and Andy breathing down my neck and I thought I’d sound you out. I think it’s promising, Roly.’
‘Do you?’ For the second time in an hour he felt quite weak with relief. ‘Thank God for that.’
She laughed. ‘Are you feeling like Piggy in the Middle?’
‘Just a tad. But it was wonderful to see her come alive, Mim. She’s been so . . . locked up inside herself.’
‘And now she’s being unwumbled. It was clever of you to think of The Starlight Express. Quite the unwumbler yourself, aren’t you? You can take the part of . . . who was he, who came to see the children and sorted everyone out? Cousin somebody or other. You can make your stage debut at last!’
‘Oh, shut up,’ he said. ‘Go away! I’m trying to cook supper.’
‘I’ll phone in a day or two. No need to say we’ve talked.’
She rang off and Roly went back to his pots. The dogs lay stretched on the cool slate, eyes unclosing from time to time to see if any morsel should be on offer. Uncle Bernard, curled up comfortably in his drawer, knew that he was perfectly placed to receive a titbit without having to worry about it.
Down by the ford Daisy was sitting on the bridge. The moon was netted and cradled in the branches of the hawthorn and, as she watched, she suddenly saw the evening star glittering below the moon’s horn. She was filled with a fizzing, bubbling excitement: rinsed clean of fear and doubt, light-hearted with expectation. Some deep-down instinct assured her that this thing that she sought to create was within her grasp and she welcomed the work that would shape it into a reality.
She gave a startled cry as a cold wet nose thrust in under her arm, nearly knocking her from her perch.
‘Bevis,’ she said with relief. She bent to press her cheek against his warm coat. ‘Good boy, then. Is it supper-time?’
As they walked back to the house together she glanced over her shoulder at the star; music was running in her head like wine and, recalling some little bygone rite from childhood, she crossed her fingers and made a wish.