Valley of Decision (16 page)

‘Thanks, anyway.'

‘I'm sorry,' Joan said. ‘It may be nothing, and it's bound to worry you, isn't it?'

‘I can't let my wife go away and not feel it,' he answered, awkwardly.

‘No.'

They talked, Joan leading, for the next ten minutes about Handel and about the Trent Quartet's plans, before the son left to mark essays. All three were apprehensive, blaming each other.

DAVID HEARD NOTHING
from Mary.

The promised letter with details of the extra week at New York State and the proposed Harvard performances did not arrive. Each morning before seven David lifted a corner of the bedroom curtain to follow the postman's flashlight along the street, and though the bills, the advertisements, the holiday brochures, interesting declarations from friends clapped through the letterbox, each day began with a disappointment that six days quickly taught him to expect.

There must have been some hold-up. If Mary said she had written to him, she was telling the truth. He fetched out the letters he had received, three airmail forms, two more substantial accounts of the audition and initial rehearsals. Five letters in five weeks; he must have sent ten. One only to the senior Blackwalls.

He reread the letters, not carefully because he could without trouble reconstruct the contents, but with an anger of speed, anger at his own weakness in returning to these pieces of paper which had now become more important than at their first glad arrival. Mary's writing was what it had always been; she used the little silver Parker, with two hearts on the clip, and the strokes were upright, well formed, bold, readable. She missed him, these notes claimed, she wished he was there; her sharp eye in the two long missives watched the vagaries of conductor, of fellow singers, of Red Gage, of academics or students she ran across. For all the change and excitement, she had her head screwed on straight. She represented the English Midlands, the shrewd shopkeeper class, the professionally trained craftsman out there in the welter of pretension, and cleverness, and kindness, and oddity. At the end of each letter she said, plainly, that she loved him; the third letter began with a three-word paragraph, ‘I love you.'

The letters were kept behind the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, but as each sad clack of the letterbox added its tithe of disappointment, David put the five into the drawer of his desk, at the back, out of sight, but safe.

He could not convince himself now that the postal services were responsible; he knew there was serious reason why his wife was not writing to him. He mentioned his unease to no one, for no one asked any questions, and oddly enough his parents maintained silence. Rehearsals with the Trent Quartet occupied him; when he played with them, he forgot his distress, as he did sometimes in his lessons, but always at the back of his mind this malaise nagged, rankled. He did not sleep badly, but woke half a dozen times each night uncomfortably, and though tiredness usually ensured he could drop off again, occasionally he prowled the upper floor of his home, staring out at darkened houses, the outlines of apple trees, hearing the wind, the scutter of rain.

Perhaps he was less disturbed than he ought to have been. Unreasoning optimism prompted, lifting his spirits. He remembered Mary's straight back as she marched off towards her plane. He remembered their first meeting.

He had been introduced to her at a party, where they had easily fallen into facetious talk. Neither had realized that the other was a student at the Royal College; when they did they compared notes about teachers, teachers' stand-ins, prospects, concerts. This dark striking girl from Derby had won two prizes in her first year, was highly regarded, was preparing to sing a leading role in the college concert, had taken principal parts in oratorios round London already, had been approached by the BBC for some schools' programme on the recommendation of her teacher and had acquired an agent on la Falconer's say-so, and he was on the lookout for operatic openings for her. David had seen her name about the college but had not set eyes on her before. She had never heard of him.

They laughed, drinking punch.

On the next evening she was due to sing a
Messiah
at a church in north London, and he offered to drive her over in his car.

‘I have to be there for three for a rehearsal.'

‘I can listen.'

‘Well, if you're sure.'

She made no great show of refusal or gratitude, but quietly outlined arrangements for meeting. In a diffident, strong way she was sure of herself. Later she laid a hand on his arm, to say, ‘You're drinking too much, if you're driving tonight.'

‘I live here.'

‘With Sue and Francis?'

‘Yes. I knew him at Cambridge.'

Mary nodded gravely, impressed. She hardly drank, he noticed, and was in no hurry to quit his company. He explained why a comparatively rich man like Frank was willing to make houseroom for him. Mary listened; the friend with whom she had come, an oboist David knew slightly, left them to their tête-à-tête.

He was in love almost at once. When at eleven she said she must go, must have her beauty sleep, he offered to escort her.

‘It isn't worth it. Two stops on the Underground. Iris will be ready.'

‘Does she live with you?'

‘The whole house is full of students.' She beckoned her friend over. ‘Be on time tomorrow, there's a good boy.' She had drawn him a map earlier. She leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek, lightly, incredibly briefly, and had walked off. For the first time he saw that straight, retreating back.

He remembered that evening three years ago both sharply and vaguely. The poignancy of both expectation and surprise rang strongly still, though he could not exactly recall how Mary had done her hair, or what she was wearing. He had sat in his car ten minutes early, and had rung her doorbell two minutes only before the appointed time. When Mary appeared, she seemed quite sober, pale and apprehensive, eyelids vivid blue. She carried an enormous portmanteau.

‘Can you get it in your car?' she asked, laughing. Reassured she said, ‘This is just right for my evening wear, but it's too big for carting round the Underground on Saturday afternoon.'

‘You've acquired a porter.'

‘It's not heavy,' she answered. ‘Just awkward.'

She spoke quietly, but easily, with this confidence, not trying to impress. Of course she was beautiful, with the dark, neat head, the blue eyes, the flawless skin, the figure, her aristocratic carriage. She was somebody. At the rehearsal she made the same mark, knowing seemingly exactly what she could demand from the conductor, prepared to make it clear, but never hectoring, reasonably, without nerves. Again the power and beauty of her voice underwrote her certainty, seemed becoming, proper.

The young couple were invited to tea at the home of a local organist. The best china had been set, three sorts of bread, cheeses, ham and tongue, home-baked buns, a dark fruit cake.

‘I come from Yorkshire,' the organist's wife said. ‘I like tea as a real meal. It was always so when I was a girl before the war.'

They were treated as an engaged or a married couple, intriguingly, and accordingly offered family confidences. Mrs Banks's daughter had wed the son of a famous pianist; she had met him at an out-of-the-way training college. Another daughter had been a prizewinner at the FRCO examinations.

‘You should see her play Bach trios,' her father enthused. ‘She sits there as if she's buffing her fingernails. Hardly moves, and she doesn't make fluffs. “Allegro di molto.” She loves it.'

‘So do you.'

Mary was ushered upstairs to dress.

Then she astounded. Her dress, in azure and navy blue, was heavily skirted to suit her height, the pride of neck and shoulders, the tilt of the head. When they went out she wore a white fur stole she had borrowed. David wanted to express his admiration, could only gape, then say foolishly, ‘That will lay them in the aisles.'

‘That's not quite the idea.'

Her speaking voice, unchanged, suited the finery, was its equivalent, lifted out of his class. She seemed unaware of her effect, not only on David but on their hosts, on everybody else, but her every move, sentence, glance strengthened it. This shopkeeper's daughter, not yet twenty, could assume regality, deserve it, carry it as a right.

The performance was good, he remembered, with a small, well-drilled amateur choir and a semi-professional orchestra. The youngish tenor and contralto soloists were at the beginnings of what would be, David decided, undistinguished but successful careers; the bass, a man of fifty odd, had been one of the best-known oratorio singers in the country and showed why, with each note in a run accurately placed, each accent perfect, each phrase shaped inside a pattern, though the compelling power of his voice had now gone. None rivalled Mary; she abode with shepherds, sang with angels, rejoiced, apostrophized the beauty of the messengers' feet, knew that her redeemer lived with a perfection of formality that left no room for doubt. Her interpretation had drama without rhetoric. ‘And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.' She tuned the notes with a purity of conviction that brooked no denial; hearing her, only the fool now said in his heart that there was no God. At twenty, a student, she outstripped them all.

David driving her home past midnight, they had returned to the organist's house for a further celebration, tried to come out with something of this. He was sober on three glasses of tonic water, but drunk with the evening's revelation. Mary listened; she leaned on him slightly, there was contact, and said after consideration that she wouldn't mind a few lessons from Terence Duckworth, the bass.

She was pleased, and yet steady, recognizing limitations. This frightened David, in that anyone of her age ought to be knocked off balance by the success, the congratulations, the glasses of wine. She was not, and yet her balance seemed not unnatural, in itself part of her gift.

During the next few months they met regularly, but not frequently. He dropped Anna Monckton-Mason, later Talbot, without qualm. Mary Stiles worked hard at her course, her engagements, and encouraged him to do likewise. When they ran across each other in the college, not often, they would talk for no more than a few moments; they exchanged notes, they attended concerts together, went out once for a meal, spent a spring Saturday in the Regent's Park zoo amongst the packs and crocodiles of schoolchildren from the provinces.

There, standing on a path, near the aviary but looking at nothing, they had stopped in a daffodil burst of sunshine. Mary wore a ridiculous waterproof hat, matching her coat, but on her the garments looked impeccable above washed-out jeans, scuffed shoes. As usual, she appeared both pleased and preoccupied, glad to be released but still running over some tricky song, or emotional scenario.

‘I hate to tell you,' David began. He had positioned himself behind, at her shoulder, felt emboldened. She turned her head, laughing.

‘Well?'

‘I love you,' he said.

‘Is that all?' Her voice was flat; the large eyes did not discourage.

‘It's enough to begin with, isn't it?'

‘That's all right, then.'

He took her hand, which was warm. They stood close; he kissed her mouth. She returned the kiss, but quickly drew away, squeezing his hand violently, wrenching almost.

‘Steady,' he said, ‘you'll have my fingers off.'

‘I think I love you,' she answered.

Joy jumped in him, like the sunshine, the dart of wind that blew sweet wrappers in scraping, wild somersaults. They began to walk.

They spoke of marriage, as a fairy tale. Mary, having a third year to complete, said that it was useless to discuss the date yet, and convinced him that she meant it. When at Easter he was appointed to his teaching post, he suggested again that they marry during the summer, but again she refused.

‘But we're going to get married, aren't we?'

‘In time. Yes.' Her answer did not discourage him; such common sense seemed second nature to her, overrode her passion. She was, he discovered, a virgin, and again that was typical. She guarded her career, totting pros and cons as her mother and father counted pound notes, the nuts and bolts, the buckets and lightbulbs in their hardware store in Derby.

Once, in her final year, she came in her one free weekend before Christmas to stay with his parents. She had been, at first, shaken and suspicious that his people were so well-to-do, but now made herself a great favourite. It was at this period she had begun to practise with Joan, tentatively at first, but once she realized how good a pianist Mrs Blackwall was she made enthusiastic use of her. She and Horace had started to establish the jokey, loving, cautious relationship; in a way, and David laughed making the comparison because one could hardly envisage such a different pair of human beings as his dry father and this beautiful tall young woman, they were alike, both warily perched behind the counter, one eye on the till, the other on the customer.

Mary, on this occasion, had appeared uncertain, almost unhappy. She had taken the first audition for the German opera tour at her agent's importunity and had done, she was convinced, badly. David questioned her about the ordeal; she had had a slight cold, a bad period and nobody knew what she was supposed to sing. Her agent and her professor made suggestions widely at variance. She'd taken some Purcell, Handel, Bellini, Verdi, Smetana, Britten to a dusty studio at a music publisher's, where two men and a competent woman pianist had been waiting. One of the men, she thought she half recognized him, but they had made no attempt to introduce themselves, looked through her pile of songs showing no interest, and had picked out two at random, or desperation at the poverty of choice. She had been instructed to stand over by the piano and perform. The pianist, inquiring about tempi, had been the only one to demonstrate humanity, and that was grudging enough. The piano clanked like chain, but she sang to her judges, at them rather, from a distance in the dry air. Neither man watched her; both sat staring down in embarrassment at the floor. One had placed a brown trilby on the chair next to his; Mary offered the detail with no attempt at humour. When she had finished they asked her to choose a song for herself, and she had to walk over towards them, pick up her pile, sort through it without any idea how to impress. In the end she chose Handel's ‘Let the Bright Seraphim', announced this to them with an interrogative lift, but as they did not respond, she made a glum way back to the piano and waited until the accompanist was sure that the copy was complete.