Ariadne was relieved. It was one of those warm September afternoons as she placed twelve chairs and stools in the garden, more in hope than expectation. Every Briton left on the small island must surely be aware of their project and now she was nervous that no one would turn up.
Her digital piano was connected by a long lead to the house, and the music was clipped carefully together in case of a sudden breeze. Hebe was in the kitchen setting out glasses for the refreshments. They had bought little cakes from the patisserie as neither of them was a reliable baker. Ariadne looked again at her father’s watch. There was a lot to get through in two hours of rehearsal.
The first to arrive was Della Fitzpatrick, looking slightly the worse for wear, in a flamboyant sundress with jazzy stripes. ‘Hi, am I the first?’ Della smiled, her eyes slightly glazed. ‘I had lunch in the taverna and thought I might stay on. Who’s coming?’
Ariadne shook her head. ‘Only the gods know.’ Then there was a crash in the kitchen and they rushed to Hebe. Her hand was bleeding.
‘It just shot out of my hand. I’m such a clumsy clot,’ she apologised.
Della was quick to clear up the broken glass while Ariadne went in search of a plaster. How many times recently had her friend dropped plates and glasses? She made a note not to let her loose with breakables.
By the time they re-emerged Ariadne was pleased to see that almost all the chairs were filled. There were a few men, including old Colonel Templeton Brown in his khaki shorts and three-quarter socks. During the day he usually wore a slouch hat, but this afternoon he was without it.
Most of the women were in summer dresses. It was one way in which the residents differed from tourists. They dressed for every occasion in pretty frocks, glittery sandals and ethnic jewellery, although Chloë Bartlett was chic in pale linen and glorious necklaces, her hair short, almost boyish, her limbs deep mahogany. Natalie Fletcher hovered at the back in her usual black, which didn’t suit her at all. Pippa, the hippie artist, had come with her dreadlocked partner, Duke. As Ariadne surveyed the choir, she felt relieved that there were a few young faces, if not enough men.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, smiling. ‘I thought we’d start with a few warm-up exercises to loosen the vocal cords.’ She played a note. ‘I want you to hum to this.’ Nothing. ‘Keep going.’ There was hardly a sound. ‘Please don’t be shy.’
This was not working, so she tried another tack. ‘This time sing, “me, me, me”.’ That was no better as everyone was too self-conscious to open their mouths. What to do next?
‘Sing something silly,’ whispered Hebe across the chairs.
‘Okay, how about “Jingle Bells”.’ She gave them a note on the keyboard. ‘You all know the words to that.’
It was a half-hearted attempt but at least there was a sound. They were interrupted by Mel, who was trying to creep in with little Markos on her hip. ‘Sorry I’m late, but Irini was too busy to have him.’
Just what I need, Ariadne thought. A howling child. ‘Let’s try again.’ Off they went, a little louder than before. There was a quite distinctive voice among them but she couldn’t work out whose it was. The little boy smiled and tried to join in and suddenly everybody laughed, relaxing. Time to try Britten’s two-part roundel, ‘Old Abram is Dead and Gone’. She managed to get them to repeat it, and when they were sure of it, she divided them into two groups. ‘You start, and when I point, the second group follows from the beginning.’
Total chaos ensued.
‘I thought we were here to sing carols, not lark about,’ a voice called from the back. It was, of course, Dorinda Thorner.
‘I take your point, Dorrie, but until we find our voices together we need to warm up. A bit of vocal training never did any choir any harm.’ That seemed to shut her up. ‘We’ll finish today with our first carol. I’ve copied out the music. Please bring it each time and practise at home if you can. It’s a simple one to start with. “Love Came Down at Christmas”. The words are by Christina Rossetti.’
She played it through, knowing most of them couldn’t read music. She was sure someone would know the tune and sure enough they sang it through. Once again a woman’s voice rang out above the rest, like a bell. The little choir seemed to be pulling together at last. ‘That was lovely, a great start. I think we’ll work well together if we can manage to keep in harmony but we do need more voices, especially men’s. Can you think of any others?’
‘There’s that Gary from the Bunker,’ Della said. ‘His wife won’t have anything to do with us but they’re not joined at the hip.’
‘I could ask him,’ said Simon.
It was time then to bring out refreshments. ‘I’ll fetch glasses,’ said Hebe.
‘I’ll do it. We don’t want any more breakages,’ Ariadne replied, then wished she hadn’t.
‘I can help,’ offered Natalie. ‘Just show me the cupboard, Miss Wilson.’
‘Hebe, please,’ she replied, and they went off together, leaving Ariadne to mingle and reassure any reluctant singers.
She made a beeline for Chloë’s group. ‘I do hope you’ll stick with us. I’m sure all of you know lots of carols.’
‘Well, I sang in the choir and the semi-chorus at my boarding school but I’m not sure this is for me. It’s far too early for singing Christmas carols,’ Dorinda piped up, with a sniff.
‘But we need your experience to help those who are not as practised and there’s a lot of music to get through if we’re to make a decent show.’
‘I suppose so, but you’ll have to blend those voices better. There was a girl at the back you could hear in the next village. Tell her to quieten down.’
‘Who was she? Ariadne wondered.
‘Who do you think? The latecomer from the taverna,’ Dorinda whispered.
So it was Mel’s voice she had heard above the others. It had power, tone and quality. She must find out more about the girl who had rushed back to Irini’s taverna.
Ariadne was relieved that the little choir stayed on for refreshments. Hopefully this would be the first of many rehearsals in the garden, where the drupes of olives were ripening fast. How she loved its lush greenery and the promise of a good harvest. Yes, it had gone well enough for a first rehearsal but would anybody turn up for a second?
Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, Love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.