Change of Heart, page 34
‘Okay, Harry,’ Fleur laughed. ‘I dig.’
‘I shall be thinking of you,’ Harry told her solemnly, and then rang off.
In the post next morning there was a parcel for Fleur, which Rita gave her at breakfast.
‘Here’s good luck from me too, Missie Floor,’ Rita said, looking very serious. ‘You play real nice and shiny now.’
Rita’s card was very large with a silver horseshoe on the front and printed inside was every good wish for the recipient on her wedding day, while the parcel was from Harry and contained a small and extremely ancient Teddy bear dressed in a very loud tie, dark glasses, and a blue beret. The message tied round his neck simply read To the best in the band, Love Harry, followed by their favourite counting-in joke which went: One, two – one two three four five.
With the recording studios only a few blocks away from Sir Iain’s house, Sir Ian left first and then a quarter of an hour before they were due to start sent Gregory back to fetch Fleur, who had spent the time practising with Isaac before going to get dressed in what she and Gregory decided would be the best and most comfortable outfit, her favourite black Snoopy tee shirt, a bright red corduroy skirt, matching red socks and old but clean white tennis shoes, with her dark hair collected and tied down her back in one long plait.
‘How is the orchestra?’ Isaac wanted to know of Gregory, as they headed for the studios. ‘I am amazed they are not come out on strike.’
‘Oh they’re past the point of rebellion, Izzy,’ Gregory replied. ‘Now they are simply curious. How about you, Flower?’ Gregory caught Fleur’s eyes in his driving mirror and made a face at her when he saw her serious expression. ‘Penny for them,’ he said.
‘It’s nothing very interesting,’ Fleur replied. ‘I’m just thinking of someone.’
‘Oh yes?’ Gregory mock-sighed. ‘And no prizes for guessing who.’
‘Well you lose, Gregory,’ Fleur replied, leaning back and shutting her eyes. ‘Because as it happens that’s not who I’m thinking of at all.’
She was thinking of morning, of just after dawn, thinking of herself as she made her way quietly down the garden as the sun began to shine through the faint blue haze, along the path and down the slope which ran towards the clearing in front of the woods, just by the old beech which had once been nearly pushed out of the ground by a gale, seeing herself stop now where she always stopped, by the old tree trunk where she stands with her basket of bread, stands without moving or calling until out of the faint blue mist, its shiny black nose twitching to catch her scent, large ears laid back in case of any danger from behind, out from the deep dark of the woods and of the faint blue mist of dawn the white deer comes to stand before her.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ Sir Iain says as the studio falls to utter quiet, the bray and the hee-haw of the orchestra’s tuning finally over, the plick of each of Fleur’s strings checked and double-checked, while the second hand of the clock on the wall jerks remorselessly on counting out the seconds in silence.
‘Absolute quiet please, everyone,’ the tall, immaculately dressed conductor reminds his players as he waits for the signal, as he watches for the light to go to red, and when it does he raises his baton in his right hand while every eye watches him past violins and cellos, over flutes, oboes and clarinets, by the necks of their basses, above the shiny surfaces of their drums until the baton flicks and the violins are in on the first beat, the tympanum and the basses on the second and the concerto begins, gathering pace and urgency with each sweep of Sir Iain’s baton as the orchestra starts to explore the several different keys the composer has chosen to state his half-dozen themes, each theme so closely related that it seems to flow into the next one quite seamlessly until suddenly and as if out of nowhere the moment they have all awaited, that very moment finally comes, the moment Fleur Fisher-Dilke is born for evermore, the moment her life begins for real, the moment when her heart-stopping voice is to be heard in full flight for the first time by a waiting world, as after a half-second of silence which hangs in the air from her violin the first notes are slowly drawn, eight deeply expressive notes sing out, a sound so beautiful, so fully rounded and so deeply passionate that it seems to catch not only Isaac unprepared as he hears the sound through the studio speakers in the booth where he sits, but also Sir Iain, who turns back to look at the figure of the small girl standing beside him on her platform. It even catches the orchestra out as all eyes turn and look in wonder at the source of this simply wonderful sound that sings so rich and pure around them as the concerto unfolds, a sound sometimes so faint and plaintive that even Isaac, hard though he has tried to make his heart, can no longer bear it and his eyes haze with tears, and then the next moment so strong and passionate that as he watches he can see Sir Iain frown down at the little girl by his side to wonder from where within her this child has found a music which defies credulity and which sings the song of heaven itself.
It had been agreed that if Isaac’s experiment seemed to be succeeding they should try and record the whole of the concerto as if it was being played in performance, so when the first movement ends, besides the odd quiet cough and repositioning of an instrument or a chair, there is complete verbal silence, just as if they were all in one of the world’s great concert halls. No-one says one word, nor looks enquiringly at each other, nor even smiles at Fleur lest the spell is broken, until seeing his players ready once more, Sir Iain lets the second movement unfold. Above the wonderful music of the orchestra the violin sings of its longing and its tragedy, through from the tranquility of the opening passage to the breathtaking force of its conclusion, before once more after a short and again almost totally silent break the long finale starts, with the violin playing swift and dazzling ascending passages until the orchestra takes up the main march-like theme, before the soloist enters again, commanding the subject before recalling in variations the themes of the first and the second movements, her astounding virtuosity becoming ever more apparent and never more so when suddenly after the sound of a solo muted horn, she begins the long accompanied cadenza, summarizing the whole concerto, revisiting all the subjects, musing on them, embellishing them, and then finally revealing how they are all so well connected. At first behind her song the orchestral violins play pizzicato tremolando, a sort of rhythmic thrum joined gradually by other instruments while still the child plays, longingly, fervently, yearningly until it is almost done, until finally the vigorous tempo with which the finale opened is restored and with enormous brio and brilliance and power the concerto ends. And when it does those who have listened sit astounded as if they have heard great music for the very first time ever.
After an eternity of perhaps five, maybe six seconds every player and every person in the studio begins to applaud, standing up from behind their desks, putting down their instruments all protocol thrown to the winds as each and every musician and technician, some laughing, some crying, some just shaking their heads in wonder stands where they are to applaud this beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed child who has just taken them into the fields of paradise, who has just let a new light shine in on a darkening world, who has just sung with the angels.
Sir Iain has tucked his baton under one arm and is clapping his hands as he comes across to Fleur to kiss her hand and then raise it above her head as if she was some lovely prize fighter, while from his booth Isaac has now fought his way out and through the ever-growing throng of people who surround the smiling Fleur until he is by her side. The moment that he is, the moment she sees him standing grinning foolishly at her Fleur puts her violin carefully down on her chair and then throws her arms around his neck as he throws his arms around her.
I knew you were good, he tries at first to whisper but finally has to shout to her, I knew you’d do okay. But this. This . . .
He can say no more, so Fleur hugs him happily once again and then still holding one of his hands she goes and shakes the hands of first the leader of the orchestra and then of every single member before she returns to where the still beaming Sir Iain stands. It’s the first time Fleur has ever seen him smile this way, and when he sees her standing before him, he presses his thumb into the tops of the first two fingers of his right hand and kisses them in Italianate fashion to show all the things he cannot say before allowing Gregory to slip his jacket around his shoulders and lead him away for a rest.
When the congratulations finally finish and the members of the orchestra slipped away for a quiet smoke or some refreshment Fleur finds herself alone at last with Isaac, still standing by her side with the puzzled expression of someone who thinks they have just seen or in this case heard something miraculous.
‘Was it really okay?’ Fleur asks, as she searchs Isaac’s pockets for the bar of chocolate she knows is there. ‘You look as if you’re going to be ill.’
‘Was it really okay,’ Isaac echoes. ‘No, Fleur, no it was not okay. I don’t think if someone paid you a million dollars you could ever play okay. What it was was sublime and no – no not even that. It was sublime one million times over. It was the most wonderful divine moment I have ever known and so no – no it was not okay, you loony. It was the very best. And most of all you got it. You said what had to be said in the only way it can be said. How don’t ask me, but you did. You got it.’
‘What, Isaac?’ Fleur wonders, finally finding a warm bar of KitKat. ‘What did I get don’t ask you?’
‘You got what it needs, what makes sense of this wonderful piece of music, that’s what, but don’t ask me how,’ Isaac replies, putting one hand to her cheek. ‘You got this sense of passionate regret. Aqui está encerrada el alama de . . . Elgar enscribed the head of the score, and you know what that means? Here is enshrined the soul of dot dot dot dot dot. The dots – there are five of them – and they are meant to be for this woman who inspired the composer. Someone he called Windflower. I think that is the perfect name for you too, because you are going to inspire so many people with your art and your beauty too. So if I may, I shall call you after those five dots but with a variation. I shall call you Windfleur.’
There was very little to do when they reassembled after lunch, most of the retakes being purely technical and not one of them artistic, at least not as far as Fleur was concerned. The risk Isaac had persuaded everyone to take by not allowing Fleur and the orchestra to meet and rehearse had paid off triumphantly according to all concerned, and when everyone had listened to the playback the only person with any dissatisfactions to express was Fleur. However, all her suggestions were overruled unanimously with everyone voting that such was the electricity of the entire performance any adjustments however minor could critically alter the balance.
‘Good,’ Sir Iain announced when the decision had been reached. ‘It’s a warts-and-all job then, and I must say, ladies and gentlemen, I agree with you all wholeheartedly. So if we can just wrap up these one or two technicalities, half a dozen cases of champagne await us.’
‘So what now?’ Isaac asked Fleur as the orchestra began to pack up. ‘Your parents laid on some nice party?’
‘If they have they haven’t told me,’ Fleur replied, collecting her violin case and her overcoat. ‘No I think we’re all just going straight home for the weekend to Worcester.’
Neither of Fleur’s parents had attended the historic recording. Although there was some excuse for her father, being a working surgeon, Isaac could see no reason why her mother hadn’t bothered to come up from the country to give her daughter moral support – and privately neither could Fleur. But since neither of them wanted anything to spoil the magic of the day they kept their disappointment to themselves, Isaac pretending that it would be all the more of a surprise for them when they finally heard the recording, and Fleur pretending that just going back home to The Folly for the weekend was a sufficient treat.
Unfortunately at the eleventh hour her father had to excuse himself from actually driving Fleur back down to the country that evening, because of a complication which had developed subsequent to the operation he had just helped to perform that very morning while Fleur had been recording the Elgar. He explained that he had to stay on call in case the patient had to be returned to the theatre and if such an emergency did arise, Richard said he might not even be able to get home for the weekend at all.
‘This is going to be no sort of life for us really, is it, young lady?’ he asked with a smile as he put Fleur in a taxi which he directed to take her to Paddington. ‘If you’re going to be famous and I’m going to be successful, we’re just not going to see each other very much, are we?’
Fleur wondered about this fact all the way to the station, much as she often did when she was alone in Sir Iain’s house, or endlessly practising by herself. She had known she was going to have to make certain sacrifices at the outset, but she didn’t know well enough what those sacrifices were going to be. Now she was beginning to find out, even at this early stage in what Isaac and Sir Iain assured her would be a long and successful career. She pictured seeing less and less of her home, her parents and her friends, and it was at times like this that she wondered whether the sacrifice was worth it. What was the rest of her life going to be like? Was it going to be like this, travelling alone to railway stations in taxis and then waiting by herself on some busy and not altogether safe station forecourt before setting off for some destination where she wouldn’t know anyone? Even now although she was at least travelling home to Worcester she’d only have her mother for company since all her friends would still be away at school.
This time, by good chance, the woman flautist from the orchestra was travelling west on the same train and seeing Fleur sitting all alone among the drunks and bagwomen on the forecourt came to her rescue, taking her under her wing for the whole journey. When her travelling companion expressed a muted dismay that somebody both of Fleur’s age and importance should be travelling unaccompanied, Fleur shrugged it off with her usual and by now well-rehearsed bromide that her parents considered it to be a necessary part of her education. After all in the very foreseeable future no doubt she would be travelling unescorted to all parts of the world.
‘I doubt that’s the reason if you don’t mind me saying,’ the woman musician said. ‘Personally speaking, my parents used to use precisely the same tactic. When they weren’t too keen on me doing something or going somewhere, they’d just say fine – but you can do it by yourself. You soon find out, at least when you’re that young, you soon find out what you really want to do and what you don’t.’
‘You think that’s what my parents are doing?’ Fleur asked.
‘I don’t know anything about your parents, Fleur,’ her companion said. ‘All I can say is that if I was a mother, firstly I’d have been there for you today, and secondly if I had somebody as precious and as pretty as you for a daughter I certainly wouldn’t let her sit around main-line railway stations let alone travel by herself.’
‘Maybe that is what my parents are doing then,’ Fleur wondered. ‘Seeing if I really am that dedicated.’
‘Maybe they are. The Americans call it Tough Love. But then they don’t usually apply it to kids your age. And with your unique gift. My guess is – and it’s perfectly understandable, so don’t get me wrong – my guess is that maybe it’s easier said than done, having a wunderkinder. Maybe some parents aren’t sure how to play it. Maybe some are just plain straightforward frightened. Or maybe they’re just jealous.’
‘Oh, not my parents,’ Fleur assured her companion hastily. ‘My mother ran away from being a musician, you see, because her father was a concert pianist and my mother always says it was the last thing she ever wanted to be. Anyway my father’s a heart surgeon and so he’s got nothing to be jealous about whatsoever.’
‘No, of course not,’ the flautist said after a moment. ‘Come on, let’s have another game of rummy.’
There was something wrong at home, however, something Fleur couldn’t begin to identify but just something she could feel even before her father finally arrived down from London late on the Saturday night. While her mother seemed glad to see her and asked all about how the recording had gone, she only seemed to be half paying attention to her daughter’s account as she sat on the opposite side of the kitchen table chainsmoking and drinking several glasses of white wine.
The recording engineer had presented Fleur with a tape of her performance to which Amelia promised to listen at breakfast the next morning, but Fleur slept in and when she finally got up she found her mother had already gone shopping without her. She offered to play it in the afternoon after lunch but, complaining of a bad headache, Amelia excused herself and went for a long rest, leaving Fleur to her own devices until dinner time. She countered Fleur’s suggestion that they could play the tape while they were eating with her own, namely that by far the best idea would be to wait until Richard arrived when they could all listen to it together.
There was no time when her father finally surfaced on Sunday morning since at last they were to celebrate Fleur’s recording debut by going out to lunch at The Elms in nearby Abberley, and they were already running late.
‘We could listen to it in the car,’ Fleur proposed, beginning to be embarrassed now at the amount of times she had suggested playing the tape, feeling that doing so made her sound conceited.
‘There is plenty of time, young lady,’ her father told her, handing her back the cassette as they got into the car. ‘We can all sit down and listen to it quietly after lunch.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Fleur said, feeling herself going red. ‘I just thought you might like to hear it, that’s all.’
‘As I have just said, Fleur,’ her father repeated, ‘we have all the time in the world.’
As it was, it seemed to Fleur that the drive to the hotel would have been the ideal occasion since it was a beautiful spring day and they were driving through some of the very same countryside which once had inspired Elgar. Moreover they passed the entire journey in silence since neither her father nor mother exchanged one word from the moment they left The Folly until the moment they arrived at the exceptionally beautiful and grand Queen Anne house which had for years been a famous country-house hotel on the outskirts of Great Witley.
