The Song of Hartgrove Hall (25 page)

The budget apparently didn't stretch to putting me up in a hotel too, so with considerable relief I took a room at the club. I was exhausted. I'd been grilled on my career and my routine with Robin. They were evidently thrilled when I described our music-room concerts and asked whether they could come and film us if, as they hoped, Robin appeared on the show. However, they confessed with an air of obsequious confidentiality, we'd need to film it at Robin's house, Hartgrove Hall being ‘a little out of the mainstream'. I'd spent a lifetime avoiding publicity. Edie despised anyone prying into our personal lives, while I've always hated talking about my music – everything that I want to say is in the piece. Either you can hear it and it works, or you don't and it doesn't. There's not much to discuss. The idea of having a film crew watching us was very unpleasant.

I was ruminating on all this in the bar when Marcus appeared.

‘You're staying tonight too?' he asked, evidently pleased to see me.

I nodded miserably and told him about the afternoon.

‘For God's sake, say no to any filming!' he said.

‘But you told me to be amenable,' I said. ‘This is me pretending to be amenable.'

‘We said stop arguing with your daughter. That's all.'

‘Oh,' I said, more miserable still. ‘I have to go with Robin to an audition tomorrow that isn't an audition.'

‘That definitely calls for brandy,' said Marcus firmly, gesturing to a waiter.

‘That is a splendid idea,' I said, perking up a bit.

We chatted for a while with pleasant ease and familiarity. Then, sometime after the second nightcap, Marcus turned to me and asked, ‘Are you writing again, old chap?'

I shook my head. ‘No. Nothing. It's all quiet up here.' I tapped my temple.

‘Give it time,' he said.

‘That's all very well. But I'm not quite so young as I was. I can't wait for ever.'

We sat for a while, pleasantly discussing mutual acquaintances, orchestras past and present, conductors come and gone, and then Marcus cleared his throat.

‘I wasn't sure whether to tell you. But what the hell. I've got cancer. Now don't get all upset. It's not a tragedy. I'm eighty-three next birthday but the doctors have told me that will probably be my last. I'd better have a jolly good party.'

‘Oh God, Marcus, I'm so sorry.'

I was sorry. More than I could say, but not just for him, for myself too. Marcus Albright was my closest and dearest pal. His sense of fun and mischief remained undimmed. That was the peril of old age, to outlive one's great friends.

‘I don't want you to die,' I said, as a result of having drunk rather too much brandy.

‘No,' agreed Marcus. ‘I don't much fancy it myself. I know that as one gets older, one is supposed to be dignified and peacefully resigned but I don't feel like that at all. I'm downright pissed off. I was just starting to get somewhere with the Beethoven sonatas and now I might not have time to finish. And death isn't really a deadline that I can push.'

‘It's terrible timing,' I agreed.

‘To terrible timing,' said Marcus, raising his glass.

We clinked.

‘And to death,' he added ruefully. ‘May he come in his pyjamas while I'm sleeping.'

I raised my glass again, swallowing with some difficulty.

‘I keep thinking of George,' said Marcus. ‘He was so brave at the end. I don't want to be brave. I don't want it to be the least bit necessary. I want to be a wimp to the finish.'

We were both silent for a moment, considering George's grim stoicism through his final illness.

‘Edie took wonderful care of him,' said Marcus. ‘I wish she was still around to take care of me. On second thoughts, I'd prefer a young Errol Flynn.'

I was desperate to go upstairs to my room. I had an unpleasant feeling that I might cry and I didn't want to do that in front of Marcus. It seemed tactless.

‘What sort of cancer?' I asked because I thought I should.

‘Do you really want to know? Does it make a difference?'

‘No. I hope you're not in pain.'

‘I'm not. Not yet. When I am, I shall take all the drugs. All the exciting new ones that weren't available when I was young enough to really take advantage.'

‘Excellent plan.'

My chest was starting to ache and I had a lump in my throat that I couldn't swallow. Marcus reached out and clasped my hand. He was surprisingly strong. He gripped it, stroking my knuckles with his forefinger.

‘I loved you, Fox,' he said.

And I saw him again as he had been, twenty-nine and sunburned, diving off the rocks and vanishing into the waters as I yelled at the empty sea, only to see him pop up a moment later, spluttering and laughing, as I shouted, furious that he'd frightened me.

He looked frightened now. I was filled with helpless fury. I leaned over and kissed him. His cheek was wet with tears. He clenched my hand more tightly, almost hurting me, and he did not let go for a long time.

—

I did not sleep well. I dreamed of Marcus and Edie. We were sailing in a boat off the Isle of Mull, which was quite wrong as Edie hadn't been there. We were young again or rather we looked young; I was my present self, yet with my memory of everything that had happened since. It was a sunlit afternoon and I felt unbearably, unconscionably sad. There was no sound except for the slap of water against the wooden hull of the boat. Then they were both gone, leaving me desolate and alone in glorious sunshine.

I woke up with a headache, feeling thoroughly sorry for myself. I attempted to pull myself together with a hearty breakfast of coffee and kippers in the club restaurant. Cowardly as it might seem, I couldn't bear to see Marcus. I ate quickly and left, hoping to avoid him. I spent a quiet morning drifting along St James's, ordering another half-dozen Oxford shirts from my tailor, and afterwards walked up to Hatchards where I bought a few books that I felt I ought to read but knew I wouldn't. I still found it terribly hard to concentrate on anything longer or more involved than a newspaper article. Still, the act of purchasing the books made me feel better, as though by owning them I would be better informed, even if I never opened their covers.

I ate a lonely lunch at a dreary restaurant and returned to the club for an indulgent snooze. I thus managed to dawdle through the hours until Robin's not-audition, and at three o'clock climbed in a taxi to take me to the television studio. I'd been before, back in the days when classical performances were
still occasionally televised, but, to my shock, I calculated that I'd not been for nearly twenty years. Everything had changed. I barely recognised the building and thought for a moment that the driver had brought me to the wrong place. Inside everything was white like in an upmarket dentist's surgery, while a barrage of television screens displayed the shows currently being broadcast. I'd never watched any of them.

I gave my name to a girl behind the reception desk and on receiving a plastic identity pass was herded along a maze of neon-bright corridors to a studio. It was much larger than I'd been led to expect after yesterday's meeting, and I was surprised to find an audience of more than fifty people milling along raked rows of seating. The technical crew were busy with lighting and cameras at the front. A grand piano stood at the centre, a constellation of lights, cameras and electrical cables all around it.

I felt distinctly apprehensive. I glanced about for Robin or Clara but couldn't see them. Noticing a girl with a headset, I introduced myself.

‘Hello, I'm Robin Bennet's grandfather. I'd very much like to see him before the – well, the whatever this is,' I said.

The girl smiled at me and mumbled something into her headset.

‘You're the prodigy's grandpa?' she asked after a moment.

I winced, then nodded.

She mumbled again. Clearly the invisible voice gave her some instruction, as she turned to me, saying, ‘Will you come with me, my lovely? You must be thrilled. Gosh, it's so exciting.'

We hurried along yet more white corridors – God knew how people found their way around such a place – until we reached a black door and I was shown into Robin's dressing room. I ruffled his hair and shook his hand. He was always
very particular about not being kissed by anyone other than his mother, who was permitted to on special occasions.

‘Have you asked to speak to one of the three musketeers from yesterday about all of this?' I asked Clara.

‘No? Do you think I should?'

A child-sized dinner suit hung from a clothes rail.

‘He's supposed to wear this.'

Robin looked from the suit to his mother with growing horror.

‘Yes. I think you should speak to someone,' I said. ‘This is a bit much.'

Before I could gather whether or not Clara agreed with me, Ralph entered, holding paper cups of coffee and a carton of juice for Robin. ‘Well, isn't this exciting?' he announced with too much bravado.

‘Grandpa?' said Robin.

‘What is it?' I asked, pulling up a chair beside him. ‘You can play if you want to, but if you've changed your mind that's perfectly all right.'

‘I want to play,' said Robin. ‘I really, really want to play.'

‘Well, that's settled,' said Ralph, practically rubbing his hands.

‘Is there lots of people out there?' asked Robin.

‘Yes,' I said. I'd never seen the point in lying to performers. They'd see for themselves soon enough and it was always better to be prepared, either way. ‘I think there's more than fifty in the audience and then, with the crew, it might be nearly a hundred.'

He looked terrified. In hindsight, perhaps I ought to have fibbed – he probably wouldn't have been able to tell the number under the glare of the lights.

‘You don't have to play,' said Clara.

‘I do. I do,' shouted Robin, looking as if he was about to cry.

I noticed that he'd developed a large stye on his left eye, which was puffy and bloodshot. He blinked and rubbed it.

‘Stop it, darling. I've told you not to touch it,' said Clara.

He nodded and rubbed it again, smearing yellow ointment all over his sleeve. My grandson was not looking his best.

Clara found another headset-wearing young person and asked to speak to one of the producers. Ten minutes later Mike appeared.

‘How are you all feeling? Excited?'

‘Itchy,' said Robin, rubbing his eye again.

‘We have a few questions,' said Clara. ‘There seem to be a vast number of people. More than we were expecting.'

‘We like to have quite a few bums on seats. It adds to the atmosphere of the test,' said Mike.

‘So it's a test now,' I said, feeling cross. ‘Not an audition but a test.'

‘A screen test,' corrected Mike. ‘But really it's just a fabulous opportunity for Robin to play in a different environment without the pressure of performing on live TV.' He turned and grinned at Robin with too-white teeth. ‘The thing to remember is that everyone out there is on your side. Most of them all work right here. They all want to love you, OK?'

‘Is it only Robin who's performing?' I asked. It seemed unlikely they'd go to all this trouble for one child – no matter how precocious.

Mike hesitated a moment too long. ‘There's a blind opera singer, and a bus driver who plays the bassoon. And there's also Keira, the little girl from yesterday. I don't know if you guys got chatting? She's also a pianist,' he added brightly.

I smelled a rat. I drew Mike to one side. ‘I can't imagine that you've room for two young piano players on your television show?'

Mike smiled his white smile and did not meet my eye.
‘Nothing is decided yet,' he said, glancing at his phone. ‘I'm sorry. I've got to dash. See you out there. You'll be great, Robin.'

We lingered in the sweltering dressing room, listening to the ineffectual roar of the air conditioner. Clara helped Robin into his dinner suit. The sleeves were too long and the cuffs dangled below his wrists.

‘That's no good at all,' I said. ‘They'll get in the way of him playing.'

I sat down so that I was eye to eye with Robin. ‘Can you stretch your arms out for me? How does your jacket feel?'

He wiggled about and shrugged.

I sighed. ‘This is perfectly ridiculous. He needs to try the piano. And see whether this awful get-up interferes with his playing.'

I glanced down at him. He'd now succeeded in getting yellow eye-ointment all over the dinner jacket.

‘Robin, darling,' I said. ‘You don't have to do what they say. I think you should simply play in your jeans and your T-shirt. You'll be much more comfortable and it will be terribly hot out there under the lights.'

He frowned. ‘Can't. I have to wear this, Grandpa. This is what proper piano players wear. If I do good, then I'll get to play in Carn Higgy Hall.'

Clara smiled but I only felt tired. ‘Well, you've already played at Hartgrove Hall and I think that's perfectly good enough for the time being.'

This was everything I'd been dreading. For the first time in more than a year, Robin was anxious and self-conscious. Silly ideas about outfits and appearances at concert halls were distracting him at a time when he ought to be playing at home or with his teacher for the simple joy of discovering music. Instead he fidgeted in his shiny suit, hopping from foot to foot like a circus ringmaster who needed to pee.

Another young person muttering into a walkie-talkie appeared.

‘Hiya, Robin, all set?'

He gave a small, formal nod.

‘I'm going to take your family out front now but they'll all be watching, cheering you on.'

Clara and Ralph hugged the small figure who stood stiffly, receiving their good wishes with quiet acquiescence.

‘Forget everyone,' I said. ‘No one matters. It's just you and the piano like at home. Afterwards we'll go for milkshakes.'