Notwithstanding (14 page)

‘Well, Bessie, have you heard the story of Saul on the road to Damascus?’

‘Yes, sir, I have heard it.’

‘It was something very like to that.’

‘Indeed, sir? And is Emily Sutton very downcast?’

‘I presume to hope that she might be, but not for too long, I trust.’

‘And what about your other promise, sir? The other promise you made in this same place?’

Piers de Mandeville laughed quietly, and looked at her askance. ‘I believe, madam, that you wanted me to call you madam, did you not, madam?’

‘I did indeed, sir, but don’t go overdoing it, sir.’

THE AUSPICIOUS MEETING OF THE THIRD MEMBER OF THE FAMOUS NOTWITHSTANDING WIND QUARTET WITH THE FIRST TWO

THERE WERE TWO
Morris Minor saloons, both grey, parked in the small driveway of Jenny Farhoumand’s house as well as a large Hillman Hunter. The latter belonged to Jenny’s husband, who was an auctioneer with Messenger May Baverstock in Godalming, and the Morris Minors belonged to Jenny herself and to the music teacher at the public school. He had come round on a Saturday afternoon in spring, to rehearse a few duets by Devienne for a little concert in the church, in order to raise money for a new set of steps up from the church to the road. Neither of them were believers, but the churchgoers were always prepared to consider outsiders to be honorary members of the congregation when it came to fund-raising. There was not much of a repertoire for clarinet and oboe, and so they were playing flute duets. Brian,
the
clarinettist, was manfully transposing on sight, and Jenny was playing her flute parts on the oboe. Sometimes it sounded quite good and sometimes very strange.

‘It’s lucky that Devienne is dead,’ said Brian. ‘I can’t imagine what he’d think of us doing this.’

‘I think it’s wonderful, how you transpose like that,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t know how you do it. You must have to split your brain in half.’

‘It does your head in after a while,’ he admitted, ‘but you get used to it, and the exercise is probably very good for you. I’m hoping it’ll make me more intelligent.’

‘Why don’t you use a C clarinet? Wouldn’t that be the really intelligent option?’

‘I haven’t got one. They don’t sound quite as nice as a B flat.’

‘Why don’t you get one, though?’

‘Maybe I should start saving up my pocket money. That’s not a bad idea, actually.’

‘Then you can save up for a basset horn. I’m sure they pay you masses at that posh school.’

‘Yes, and pigs fly. I’d love a basset horn, though.’

‘By the way,’ said Jenny, ‘can you see the kids anywhere?’

‘They’re all in a heap, fighting on the lawn,’ said Brian, looking through the window. ‘Suzie has just bitten Annie, and Andrew is crying, and the dog is
digging
in the flower bed, and your husband is doing something to the lawnmower. By the way that his lips are moving, I would guess that he’s swearing. I can’t see the cat, but I think the rabbit’s got out. There’s a black one in the vegetable patch.’

‘All’s right with the world, then,’ said Jenny. ‘Shall we try something else?’

They were halfway through a fairly vigorous allegro when Suzie, aged six, blonde, tousled and filthy, came running in. ‘Mummy, Mummy, there’s a strange man outside, and he was listening under the window. I saw him, I saw him!’

‘Have you told Daddy?’

‘Yes, I did tell Daddy, and Daddy’s got him and he’s going to kill him.’

‘Oh dear, really?’

‘He’s got a big spanner, Mummy.’

‘I suppose we’d better go out,’ said Brian, putting his clarinet carefully on to its stand, and replacing the cap.

Outside they found a small, bespectacled middle-aged man in a brown jacket and waistcoat cowering between a wall and a rhododendron, while Jenny’s husband, already enraged by the intransigence of the mower, loomed over him with a large wrench and demanded explanations.

‘Peter, darling, please, be careful with that thing,’ said Jenny. ‘You might do some damage, and then
they’ll
take you away in a Black Maria, and tomorrow you’ll miss Sunday lunch, and we’ll have to give your share to the dog.’

Peter lowered the spanner, and said, ‘All right, but who the hell are you, and what are you doing underneath my window? And don’t you know any better than to walk on other people’s flower beds? It compacts the soil. Don’t you know that?’

‘No. I’m not a gardener, I’m afraid. I really am most terribly sorry. It was the music.’

‘The music?’ repeated Jenny.

‘Yes, the music. I just love that kind of music. I love Devienne. It’s a bit light, I suppose, but I don’t mind. I’ve never heard it done like that before, on oboe and clarinet. I couldn’t resist listening. I really am so sorry … for the damage to the flower bed … and for intruding.’

‘You knew it was Devienne?’ said Brian, much impressed. ‘Are you a musician yourself?’

The little man nodded, and said, ‘Bassoon.’

‘Bassoon!’ exclaimed Jenny and Brian together, both struck by the same thought.

‘Prove it,’ said Peter, who was still enraged by his mower, and desired a little more confrontation and aggression.

‘Prove it? Why, do you have one?’

‘Tell us the K number of Mozart’s bassoon concerto in B-flat major,’ said Jenny, mischievously.

‘And the opus number of Weber’s bassoon concerto,’ added Brian.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ exclaimed Peter, ‘bloody musicians!’

‘It’s 191 and 75, respectively,’ said the man. ‘I’ve played both of them in my time.’

Jenny and Brian were astounded. ‘You’ve played them both? Entire concertos?’

‘I used to be a pro, but then I got married. You can’t support children and a wife, especially not my wife anyway, if you’re just a bassoonist. Now I play with whoever wants me. I keep my hand in. One of these days I’ll be back on the road, God willing. Well, wife willing.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Jenny.

‘Oh no,’ said Peter, waving his spanner, ‘I can just see what’s coming. God save us all.’ He strode away to renew battle with his mower. The children, who all this time had been standing dumbly by with their thumbs in their mouths, returned to their scrum on the lawn.

‘So what were you doing round here?’ asked Brian.

‘I’m a de Mandeville,’ said the man, as if that amounted to an explanation. ‘Or man-devil, as my wife likes to say.’

‘I don’t see …’ began Jenny.

‘I’m Piers de Mandeville. Piers is a family name. There’ve been lots of us. You’ve probably noticed the
big
tomb just outside the door of the church. It’s the one where they hide the key. That’s the Piers de Mandeville I’m descended from. We used to be the lords of the manor, you know, in that house where the musicologist lives. Unfortunately we went down in the world. It was the South Sea Bubble, apparently. The family lost a fortune.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Brian. ‘I don’t even know the names of my great-grandparents.’

‘I’m a genealogist. When I’m not a bassoonist, I spend my time finding the ancestors of Americans, mainly. It pays surprisingly well. They’re all convinced that they’re related to the royal family. Or Irish chieftains.’

‘It’s like people who believe in reincarnation,’ said Jenny. ‘They all think they were Cleopatra.’

‘Do they?’ said Brian. ‘They say I’ve got an ancestor who was hanged for being a highwayman.’

‘Well, anyway, I like to come here and see where Piers and Bessie are. It’s a sad story.’

‘Go on,’ said Jenny, ‘depress us. Do come in and have a cup of tea.’

Once in the drawing room de Mandeville continued. ‘Well, Bessie was from the poor side of the family, who lived in Chiddingfold. The Maunderfields. They were farmers. Apparently she and Piers fell in love, and they got married rather late in the day, after a lot of opposition from his family. Three months
after
they married, poor Bessie died. It says “dyed in childbed” on the tomb.’

‘Oh, I saw that,’ said Jenny. ‘It always makes me feel sad. And there are three little children in there by a second wife. They are all called John and they died one after the other in the space of three years. It’s awful.’

‘After Bessie, he married one of the Rector’s daughters. Emily Sutton. They had eight children, so losing three wasn’t so bad, I suppose, by the standards of the time. I’m descended from Bessie, the first wife. The little baby survived and they sent it to Chiddingfold for the grandmother to look after, and then when Piers remarried the boy was sent back to the manor. They called him Perditus.’

‘Perditus?’ said Brian.

‘Little Lost One. Since then, some of us have had it as a second name.’

Jenny suddenly felt tearful. She was a sentimental person, and her feelings came easily to the surface. She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.

‘He did well, though. When he grew up he started quarrying Bargate stone. All the old buildings around here are made of it. You know the old lime kiln next to the church? I think they probably used it for making mortar, as well as lime for the fields. Anyway, that’s the story. I was visiting Piers and Bessie and Emily and the three little boys, and when I came back down
the
hill, I heard you two playing. By the way, there were two old ladies in the graveyard, and one of them introduced me to someone who wasn’t there.’

‘Wasn’t there?’ repeated Brian.

‘She had someone on her arm, as if she was supporting him, and she kept talking to him, but he wasn’t there. When she noticed me looking, she said, “This is my husband.” Well, I didn’t know what to do. I wondered if I ought to pretend to shake his hand. Then the old lady said, “We’ve just been visiting his grave.” It was quite bizarre.’

‘That’s Mrs Mac,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s a spiritualist. She lives with her sister and the ghost of her husband. He’s called Mac. She even goes on the bus with him and tries to pay two fares.’

‘How very entertaining,’ said Piers, and then he frowned. The tone of his voice changed, and he looked at Jenny. ‘I’d like to know if you know the K number of Mozart’s oboe concerto in C major.’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Then why did you expect me to know the K number of the bassoon concerto?’

‘We didn’t know it, anyway,’ said Brian cheerfully. ‘You could have said anything you liked.’

‘Do you drive a Morris Minor, by any chance?’ asked Jenny.

‘No, I’ve got an old Minx. Why?’

‘We have eligibility criteria.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Oh, never mind,’ said Jenny.

‘You have to bring offerings of tail feathers from pheasants,’ said Brian.

After the bassoonist had gone home in his Minx to his difficult wife, Jenny and Brian went out into the garden. The children clambered up Brian and draped themselves from him like human flags. ‘Oh God,’ he said, as he toppled over.

Peter relaxed the throttle lever on the mower and stopped making his stripes. ‘I just thought I’d tell you, darling,’ said Jenny, ‘the bassoonist is coming to Sunday lunch tomorrow. I’m sure there’ll be enough for all of us. There just won’t be any leftovers for warm-up. And he’s bringing his wife. And his bassoon.’

Peter sighed and pursed his lips. He put on a funereal Scottish accent and said, ‘We are doomed, Captain Mainwaring, doomed.’ Then he throttled up the mower and resumed his work.

As Jenny said goodbye to Brian, she remarked, ‘Talking of pheasant feathers, I wonder how you clean out a bassoon.’

‘Alsatians’ tails,’ said Brian.

‘Not very practical. I don’t think you’d get one round the bends.’

‘You hardly ever find a dead one,’ said Brian, ‘and it’s a bit cruel cutting them off when they’re still alive.
When
they come round from the anaesthetic, they’re all off balance for a while.’

‘We just need a flautist, now,’ said Jenny. ‘One that plays in tune, and breathes at the right times, and isn’t mad.’

Brian shook his head. ‘There’s probably more chance of finding an Alsatian’s tail sticking out of a hedge.’

FOOTPRINT IN THE SNOW

BACK THEN EVERY
parish of the Anglican Church still had its own vicar or rector, and many of them still lived with modest gentility in substantial houses inherited from more prosperous and faithful days, when God was indisputably in His heaven, and all was right with the world. These were the times when one was not respectable unless seen in church, at least at Christmas and Easter. For teenagers it was a chance to eye up the prospects, and for middle-aged and elderly women it was a chance to remark upon who wasn’t there, and to deplore each other’s hats.