Ghost Song (60 page)

The gramophone itself was nearby. It was an old wind-up machine, as she already knew, with a tone chamber and the characteristic trumpet-shaped horn. On one side was the handle for winding. It looked as if Shona had wiped it clean with a length of old curtain or screwed-up newspaper from one of the boxes. With infinite care Hilary pulled the machine into the centre of the floor, then laid the record on the turntable.

And then she stopped. She knew how Toby's lyrics read on a sheet of music, because she had found the sheet music of ‘Tipsy Cake' in the St Martin's Lane bookshop. They were light and witty and mischievous. But reading them was a whole world away from hearing Toby's own voice.

Last night she had only heard a few scratchy lines of this record, and she had been so frightened of Shona that she had not been in any condition to judge either the song itself or the singer. She did not mind that the sound quality would not be good; what she did mind was that hearing it properly might be a massive disappointment. Toby might have a terrible voice, hitting wrong notes all over the place, or the record might have been made when he was no longer very young—Hilary had no idea when he had been born—and it might be the cracked voice of old age. And even if he hit the right notes with the precision of a newly tuned violin, he might sound stilted and formal—in fact he probably would, because most music-hall performers were so used to an audience, they could not strike the spark without one.

This was crazy. Toby was interesting because of the Tarleton and all the mystery, and it did not matter if he sounded like an elderly tin can or a stuffed dummy. She turned the handle and the turntable moved, jerkily at first, and then with more assurance. In the quiet attic with its scents of age and memories, a forgotten old song—a song written almost a hundred years ago by two men who had been part of the lost world of music hall—began slowly and scratchily to live again.

And Toby Chance's voice was as true as any Hilary had ever heard. There were no false notes, and it was not the cracked voice of a failing or ageing performer. It was a voice that was alive and alight with life, and the singer sounded as if he was on the verge of laughing, because he was loving every minute of performing and because he loved his theatre.

It was only then it occurred to her to look in the rest of the boxes in case there were other records to be found. She spent an absorbed hour, finding photographs and old programmes from Frank Douglas's ENSA days. It looked as if there had been some connection with concert parties for first world war troops as well; there were a couple of envelopes with sepia photos marked 1916. Several had a slightly plump lady with beautiful eyes, clearly wearing a stage costume, standing in front of heart-breakingly young soldiers.

There was sheet music in the same box—some of it Chance and Douglas songs. ‘Tipsy Cake' was there again, and also ‘The Ghost Walks'. Riches, thought Hilary gloatingly, seeing with delight that both were hand-written on musical score paper. Both bore a squiggle of initials in the bottom right-hand corner—T.C.

At the bottom of the box was a single sheet of paper, and as Hilary lifted it out she saw it was not music, but a brief letter, written in slightly untidy handwriting, as if the writer had been impatient to get the information down on the paper, or perhaps had been in a hurry when writing it. The paper was brittle with age and the ink had faded, but not badly, probably because the paper had been protected by being beneath the rest. It was undated and there was no address. With her heart beating faster, she read it.

Dear Frank,

Here's the new song lyrics. If you can put one of your incomparable melodies to it, that would be wonderful. I visualized it as something like ‘The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo', but you'll be sure to compose something better, I know.

Put it somewhere safe for the moment, will you, because we obviously can't do anything with it yet. But perhaps one day it
will
be performed, and people hearing it might understand the clues and know the truth about my part in that wretched ill-starred business in Sarajevo, and about Tranz and all the rest of it. I hope so—I'd hate future generations to believe I was one of the plotters who assassinated Franz-Ferdinand.

The letter ended with no signature, but there were the same squiggled initials as on the sheet music. T.C.

‘At first I liked being in the Tarleton because it was where I felt nearest to Toby,' said Flora to Hal, ‘but it's becoming unbearable now. We've got the new concert on, though: Rinaldi and Frank and I did it between us. Could you come with me to that, Hal? It's meant to lift people's spirits in the midst of all the war gloom in the newspapers. Ever since the formal declaration last week, people are frightened. Suspicious of each other. They don't quite know how to behave yet.'

‘I know.' Hal, who had been staring out of the window, said, ‘And the show must go on?'

‘Yes. Without Toby if necessary.' A spasm of pain twisted her face, then she said, ‘Theatres are important at times like this.'

‘I understand that. Of course I'll come with you.'

The Tarleton's boxes were not often used, but Flora asked Rinaldi to open one of them for the concert. The stage-right box, she said. It had a good view of the stage, which meant she and Hal would be able to see everything—also the audience would see them, and that might help quell the speculation about Toby's continuing absence.

‘That's assuming there is an audience at all,' she said to Hal as they went inside.

‘You said it was a full house.'

‘Rinaldi said it was. Every seat sold and standing at the back for twopence. He wanted to open up the old stage box as well, but I told him not to bother,' said Flora. ‘I always think of it as Toby's place. It's where he went to watch a performance.'

As the house lights went down and the footlights came up, Flora was aware of the warm affection of the audience. They love this place, she thought gratefully. It's part of their lives—it's part of my life, as well. She was managing to keep a tight hold on her emotions, although she felt as if the smallest wrong word would cause her to collapse in a sobbing heap on the floor for Toby whom she might never see again and who might, in any case, be dead.

Here came the acts, one following another with seamless professionalism. The Rose Romain dancers opened the evening, which the audience enjoyed, all the way down to Elise Le Brun's astonishing costume. ‘Far more daring than anything I ever wore,' murmured Flora to Hal.

Then came a sketch which Bunstable had written about a confused traveller at a railway station getting his tickets and his destinations mixed up. It set the house rocking with laughter, because everyone loved Bunstable.

Prospero Garrick closed the evening with a Shakespearean speech.

‘He wanted to do something rousing,' said Flora to Hal. ‘Something appropriate for a war. So he's giving them his Richard II; he says it will rally them.'

‘Will he be sober?'

‘Rinaldi and Bob Shilling were going to lock him in the wardrobe and hide the gin. But I suspect he'll dry and end in making half of it up as he goes along.'

‘Iambic knitting,' said Hal.

‘Yes, but he does it so well that no one will know. In any case, most of the Victorian actor-managers rewrote Shakespeare to suit their own purposes. Prospero's only harking back to an old tradition.'

But when Prospero came onto the stage they both saw he was perfectly sober; Flora thought that for all the portliness of his build, he cut an imposing figure on a stage. He was not wearing costume but had flung a cloak round his shoulders, and put on high leather boots into which he had tucked the tops of his trousers.

He came right up to the footlights, and said, ‘My dear friends, you all know we are now engaged in a massive conflict which may rage across an entire continent. Let us remember that we go into that conflict as Englishmen and heroes.' He looked round the theatre, as if listening, then lowering his voice, said, ‘And let us also remember that we shall be
victorious
!'

He stepped back, and Hal murmured to Flora, ‘Not at all bad. For once he kept it nicely simple.'

‘I hope he finds remembering Richard II simple.'

But Prospero did remember. And really, thought Flora, for all we make a bit of a laughing-stock of him for his drinking and his mannerisms and his florid way of dressing, he's a dear amiable old boy and has the most remarkably beautiful voice.

Prospero's remarkable voice was easily reaching every corner of the theatre tonight, and the words written by Shakespeare were as relevant in this August of 1914 as they had been three hundred years ago.

‘This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessèd plot, this earth, this realm, this
England…'

Tears were starting to Flora's eyes, and she reached for Hal's hand in the dimness. Damn Prospero and his beautiful voice and damn William Shakespeare and his genius for plucking at people's emotions as if they were violin strings, she thought. This blessèd plot…this England… Yes, that matters so much, she thought. But if I've lost Toby nothing in the world will really matter, not ever again.

Hal suddenly leaned forward and said, ‘Flora. There's someone standing in the stage box.'

And then Flora saw, half concealed by the curtain, the shadowy figure in the long concealing cloak watching them.

It was difficult to make their way from the box because there were so many people who were pleased to see Flora, and who must be listened and talked to. They're Toby's people, thought Flora. And once they were my people. I can't ignore them. Yes, but there's someone in the stage box, Toby's box…

Somehow she smiled and accepted the congratulations on the evening, agreeing it had been one of the best, lively and colourful, a real Tarleton night, the music wonderful, Prospero Garrick's performance stirring… Yes, a shame Toby had not been part of things, but he would be here next time, oh yes, of course he would…

At last they were across the foyer and going up the stairs leading to the stage box. As they approached, a beat of apprehension pulsed inside Flora's head. It would not be him, of course it would not… It was ridiculous to think it, even for a moment. And yet it would be so like Toby to make such an absurd, dramatic,
dangerous
gesture—to return in the face of the danger.

Hal opened the door of the box and Flora went in. The figure turned to face her. Even though he was standing well back from the spilling light of the auditorium, and even though a dark beard framed his face, Flora knew him at once. She gasped and flung herself into her son's arms.

T
OBY SAT ON THE
battered couch in the green room and looked about him with deep affection.

‘In the last few weeks,' he said, ‘there were times when I thought I should never see any of this again. Or any of you. You have no idea how it feels to be home.'

‘You have no idea how it feels to have you home,' said Flora, who was seated on the old couch with the broken springs. Sonja Kaplen had curled up on a pile of curtains; she had appeared after the performance with Frank Douglas, and had been introduced. Toby had noticed that both his parents looked at her with interest. Frank was in the far corner with Hal.

‘Having acknowledged all the emotions,' said Hal, ‘we have to decide what on earth we're going to do with you.' He regarded his son with a mixture of affection and exasperation. ‘If you had to plunge us all into this mess, did you have to do it quite so dramatically?'

‘I'm sorry,' said Toby. ‘I really am. If I'd known the truth about Anton Petrovnic—I mean Reznik—I wouldn't have had anything to do with him. And if I'd had the least suspicion he was using me to settle an old score with you, I'd have run a mile in the opposite direction. Although I'd have to say if we're talking about being dramatic, this business of a thirty-year-old vengeance is more than dramatic, it's pure melodrama.' He looked from one to the other of them. ‘And even now I don't think you've told me everything about that,' he said.