Broken Harmony (5 page)

I turned to climb the Side, that narrow winding street that leads up to Amen Corner and the church of St Nicholas. The organist there is half-dead and half-drunk and so deeply in debt he will
never be able to recover. I have long hoped for his dismissal and the ensuing election for the post. I flatter myself that no one in this town can match me on the keyboard and the forty pounds per
annum paid by the Town Corporation would allow me to rent a larger room. Except that the organist, Mr Nichols – for he is elder brother to a certain dancing master – lingers and lingers
beyond reason. I was feeling angry, resentful, ungenerous.

The Side, like all streets, should have lanterns outside every private establishment; but many men are careless of civic duties, others have no money and, here at least, one or two have gone out
of business and removed themselves, leaving houses empty. The Side therefore was lit by a single lantern outside a house about halfway up and I trod carefully, conscious of the shadows reaching out
to me from alleys and doorways. Only a fool walks about the town on his own after dark (only a fool and a man with a living to earn), and even then he keeps to ways that are well-lit. But to
retrace my steps and go by Butcher Bank after all would make me late, so I went on, nerves prickling with apprehension.

I failed to hear them, even then. Something slammed into my back, hurling me forward to crash into a wall. Hearing shouts behind me, I found myself on my knees, my hand slapping into a dog turd.
Heart beating fast, breath in a flurry, I scrambled up, ready to defend myself.

But I was an unintended victim. Someone had hurtled out of an alley and knocked me flying as he passed. I could see him stumbling desperately down the Side, panting, only yards in advance of the
two men pursuing him.

And even as I saw the cudgels hanging from the beefy hands of the assailants, I recognised their quarry.

Light-Heels Nichols, the dancing master.

7

BATTLE PIECE
Movement II

God help me, I almost turned and ran. Not out of cowardice but from the motive of self-preservation. In affairs like this ribs get cracked and heads get bloodied but, worse,
hands get trodden upon and broken – an eventuality no musician can regard with equanimity. But Christian feeling took over and I stepped into the fray, roaring. One of my father’s
favourite maxims: “Charles,” he would say, “make as much noise in the world as you can.” No doubt he had not had a brawl in mind.

I grabbed the collar of the nearest villain, lugged him backwards. His hands flew up; I plucked the cudgel out of his grasp, and swung it at his head. He went down with a gasp. I rounded on the
other fellow. Nichols was down on the ground, curled up as the remaining villain kicked at his most private possessions. I swung the cudgel. At the last moment, the ruffian realised his danger and
ducked. He slipped and I thought I had him, then he lunged away and was off down the street.

Poor Nichols was writhing and groaning on the cobbles. The dark street was still deserted. No one had come out to see what was happening. Wise souls; I have bolted my own door against brawls
before now, particularly in London.

“Guggle, guggle,” said Nichols and spewed up his last meal at my feet. I leapt back and avoided the worst of it but the stench almost turned my stomach. He crouched against the wall,
clutching his groin and making noises like a man about to expire.

“You are most fortunate, Mr Nichols,” I said, “that I was about when those villains tried to rob you.”

“Rob!” His voice ended on a squeak. “Why should they rob me? What do I have?”

“A watch,” I pointed out. “And a ring upon your finger. Perhaps a guinea or two in your pockets. Ruffians have killed for less.”

“Nonsense!” He straightened. I saw an idea dawn in his face. “I have been set upon deliberately! By that fellow Demsey!”

“Now, sir,” I said soothingly. “You are confused.” Damn him for getting that idea – but I won’t deny it had been the first in my mind.

“And you’re a crony of his!” Nichols drew back in alarm. “You’re in league with him! You knew he’d set those fellows on me and came to watch the
fun!”

“If I were in league with Demsey,” I pointed out, “I would not have intervened to save you. But if it will reassure you, I will leave you and let you find your own way
home.”

Fear crossed his face. The moon, though still full, was half-hidden by clouds, and the head of the Side, rising above us, was in darkness. I did not much like the look of it myself but I
flattered myself I was not a coward, or a dancing master.

“You may take this cudgel, sir, to guard you,” said I. And I held up the stick I had taken from the first ruffian.

My luck was still running foul. As I raised the cudgel, we heard the clatter of hooves. A shadow moved in the darkness at the foot of the Side, then a black horse came up the narrow hill into
the light of a torch and out again. Its rider was dressed in black to match; at first he was merely a pale shape of face in the night. Then a voice called out: “Nichols,
c’est
vous
?” and I recognised the abrupt tones of Henri Le Sac.

He reined in the horse beside us so sharply that the animal’s head jerked up. Metal gleamed in a flicker of moonlight. I found myself looking into the muzzle of a pistol.

“Monsieur Patterson,” said Le Sac. “I trust you have good reason to be attacking my friend Nichols.”

“I can probably invent one,” I said in the most affable tone I could contrive. “But you misjudge the situation. I was helping him fight off two ruffians.”

“But how philanthropic!” he said, almost as cordially. “And I suppose these ruffians are now run off?”

“As a matter of fact…” But of course, when I looked round, I saw that the ruffian I had laid flat had taken advantage of our attention being elsewhere to make his escape.

“It’s that fellow Demsey,” Nichols cried. “He set the rogues on me and this one came to watch.”

“Nonsense,” I said briskly – for I fancied I had seen the pistol rise. “I was on my way to a lesson, which I may say I am now missing. I was just setting Mr Nichols back
on his feet.”

“He was in league with them!”

But Le Sac was lowering his pistol. The moonlight glinted off his horse’s harness and revealed the dark shapes of a violin case and a bag of clothes slung behind. He must be on his way
back from a lesson in the country. “My dear Nichols,” he said with a sigh. “You do not understand people. Monsieur Patterson is not a fool. And,” he added, turning his
attention to me, “neither am I, sir. I know it is not poor Nichols who engages your attention.” He leant forward confidentially. “I tell you frankly, Monsieur Patterson, there is
not room for both of us in this town!”

And as I stared at him in astonishment, he jerked on the horse’s reins and the animal clattered past me, so close that I felt the warmth of the sweat on its flanks. Nichols stumbled after
them.

“A real pair of fancy men,” said a female voice from the wall behind my shoulder. The spirit sniffed, then added coyly, “Give me someone plain and honest any day, I
say.”

If the words were meant for me, I did not regard them as a compliment. And an invitation from a spirit is of little use to a man.

“We did try to warn you,” she said, “since the old uncle takes such an interest in you. I could see those rogues were up to no good, hiding in the alley. And knowing you came
this way every week…”

She seemed on the verge of coyness again. I said sharply, “Do you know where Hugh Demsey is?”

“The other tip-toeing gent? Now there’s a handsome fellow. Wait on.” Did I hear a murmur of voices? A moment later, she resumed. “Never could get the hang of those fancy
dance steps, you know. And gentlemen did like it if you could tread a measure or two. What? Oh, much obliged. He’s in his school room. Down Westgate.”

I was angry as I started off towards Westgate and in a very short time I was cold as well. The clouds began to deposit a chill rain upon me, whitish drops like sleet splattering on my face and
darkening my greatcoat. Around St John’s Church I almost lost my way in the darkness and stumbled into a horse trough, splashing myself with water. On, up past the vicarage, past the trees of
the vicarage garden and on to the street of tall narrow houses this side of the West Gate itself. This is a part of the town where people of the genteel sort live, so lamps are more conscientiously
placed above house doors. Past the impassive face of the Assembly Rooms on the left, where old Mr Thompson was causing such havoc since he died in the middle of a country dance. Past
Bedwalters’s writing school on the second floor of a neat but shabby house.

And then the more welcoming facade of the clockmaker’s with the clocks nodding behind the glass window. An archway leads back to the clockmaker’s workshop behind and a side door,
usually unlocked, gives access to a narrow flight of stairs to the floors above. On the first floor is Demsey’s school room; on the second lives a widow who supports her children by painting
delicate miniatures; and in the attic is Demsey’s own lodging. This was old Harris’s dancing school, bequeathed five years since to his last and favourite apprentice. He had the
consideration to die at home so Demsey is spared the trial of his old master muttering instructions and admonitions over his shoulder, as he did in life.

I climbed the stairs. They creaked and gave advertisement of my coming so that when I pushed at the half-open door of the school room, Demsey was already looking towards me. He stood in the
middle of the long narrow room, surrounded by brilliant branches of candles. The chairs had been stood in line around the walls and Demsey had evidently been gathering up orange peel abandoned by
his scholars. Scuff marks in the polish of the floor gave the room an abandoned forlorn air.

I trod carefully across the polished boards towards him, knowing from experience how easy it was to slip when not wearing dancing slippers. Demsey – silently waiting my approach –
was in his formal best, all peacock blue in his coat and a darker turquoise in his knee breeches that fitted as snugly as any mama might fear. He watched me coolly. “Is it raining,
Charles?”

Looking down, I saw that my boots were leaving a muddy trail. That and his cool manner, so unlike his normal mien, disconcerted me. “I am missing a lesson because of you,” I snapped.
“I can ill afford to lose that money!”

I saw a frown between his brows; I went on without pause. “I have faced down two ruffians with cudgels and I have been threatened with a pistol. I have been accused of complicity in an
assault and informed that sooner or later I must leave this town and find another place. And all because of
your
schemes!”

He tossed the orange peel into a basket laden with such rubbish.

“Did you tangle with my surprise for Nichols, then?” he said with a frankness that took my breath away. “I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced.”

“Inconvenienced!”

“But he cannot think you have any quarrel with him.”

“He knows me to be a friend of yours. That is cause enough.”

“As for the other matter…” He frowned again. “I did not think him man enough to own a weapon.”

“Not him! His crony, Le Sac, came upon us, all eager to defend his bosom friend and to find reason to discredit me and run me out of town. God knows why he dislikes me so!”

“I daresay it is because you have more true musicianship in your little finger than he has in his entire body.”

He spoke in such a casual manner that I hardly took his words in at first. He gave me a sideways glance as he straightened the last of the chairs.

“I do not flatter you, Charles. I save that for my pupils. If I may give you one piece of advice, it is to abandon those abominable compositions and to concentrate upon what you do best
– managing people. If Le Sac was not here, the gentlemen would all be running to you to direct the Concerts and to tell them what to do in that charming manner of yours.” I fancied I
saw the trace of a smile. “Your greatest asset is tact, Charles. Le Sac is totally devoid of that admirable virtue but he contrives to escape condemnation because he is a
Genius
.”

Astonished that he should speak to me in such a manner, I flung at him: “I do not need advice from you! And as for my compositions, I have had many compliments paid to them. I am thinking
of putting forth proposals for publication.”

“No, no, don’t!” he said with a return of his usual impulsive manner, the first heat of emotion I had seen upon him. “The gentlemen would buy, certainly – they
always buy the latest novelties – but they would laugh at you in private. And the writers in London…”

The mention of London stung. I saw he knew it as soon as he uttered the word. Try as I do, I cannot forgive the ignorant lords and ladies who give acclaim to the worst of the musicians there,
providing they be foreigners. To their own, they give nothing but indifference.

“I believe I am capable of judging my own work with some discernment,” I said. “You will see the notice in the paper when I do choose to publish. Damn it, Hugh, do you not even
consider what this affair tonight will do to my reputation if it gets about?”

“
Your
reputation?” he repeated.

“If Nichols or Le Sac should spread the tale… No one wants a drunkard and a brawler to teach his children!”

“I see,” he said, then lost his temper and roared at me. “
Your
reputation,
your
pupils!” I tried to interrupt; he raised his voice louder. “And you
lecture
me
on selfishness?”

“I won’t lose my livelihood because of your stupid pranks!”

“What about
my
livelihood?”

“To the devil with your livelihood,” I said recklessly.

“I see,” he said frostily. “In that case, there’s nothing more to be said.”

“No, there is not,” I said and slammed the door behind me.

8

BATTLE PIECE
Movement III

Someone was talking to me from a great distance. I mumbled and turned over, not wanting to wake, or to leave the bed. Oh God, that argument with Demsey, that ridiculous scheme
of his! The encounter with Le Sac, Nichols’s accusations – it all returned to me with force.