Valley of Decision (25 page)

‘I like Cyril Barton,' he said to Walter in the car.

‘He's all right. Bit of an old woman.'

‘How old is he?'

‘Just a year or two older than Fred. Thirty-five, perhaps.'

‘I thought he was more than that.'

‘He's mean,' Wilkinson answered, at a tangent. ‘Wouldn't give the parings of his fingernails away.'

‘Was he an only child?'

‘Yes. And his parents were getting on, from what he says. I was one of five.'

‘Are the others musicians?'

‘Two of my brothers are brass players like my dad. An uncle left us a fiddle in his will; that's why I started. How do you get on with Fred?'

‘Payne? He's good.'

‘He's a homo, you know.' A throwaway whisper.

‘Does that make any difference?'

Wilkinson struggled largely in his seat.

‘Can't help it, can he? Funny chap. I knew him a bit at the Royal Manchester. He was ahead of me. Bit of a big noise. Led the orchestra and so forth. He wants to drag the rest of us along with him and his ambitions.'

‘And you don't approve?'

‘I don't know about that. You're either one hundred per cent behind Fred, or you're out. He got rid of Jon Mahon. Oh, I know he left for Australia, and all the rest of it, but he knew Fred didn't want him, was fetching Knighty down. Jon tried to do it on him by nipping off without notice and saying nothing. That's why we're lucky with you. You don't think of taking it up, do you? As a career?'

‘No.'

‘Fred's weighing you up, I reckon. He's not sure about me, but keeps me on because I play well. He knows the sounds I make are as good as his, if not better. And that's what you need as number two. A bloody good player who practises and doesn't go in for ideas above his station. He'll out me if I don't fall in with his plans, I tell you. The reason I asked you was that when Bob Knight arrives there'll be ructions. Between him and Fred. Knighty can play, he's better than some fancy soloists, but he's aggressive and high-spirited, all for a barney. Fred'll let anybody argue; he'll listen to you for a bit, but he's got to be the leader.'

‘Isn't that as it should be?'

Wilkinson looked across, considering.

‘Yes, if he knows what he's on with. Somebody's got to make his mind up. He's also very good at organizing practices. He knows when to go over bad patches, and when to leave them. You don't waste much time at rehearsals; you'll have noticed that. But once old Jocko Knight appears there'll be bust-ups, I reckon. And that's why he's so pleased to have found you. He'll waft you in Knight's face; a Cambridge man who can play.'

‘And is this good for the quartet?'

‘There have to be stresses. There are bound to be, it stands to sense. But a good leader'll use them. He's made me feel uncomfortable these last few weeks because I wouldn't turn out every hour of the day and night to rehearse this Shostakovich. Oooh, yes. A hint there, a plain prod here. He's let me know.'

They had arrived outside Wilkinson's house.

‘Are you coming in?' He consulted his watch. ‘Nine twenty.'

‘No, thanks.'

‘What would you do if you were in my position?' Wilkinson asked.

‘I can't answer that, because I don't know how successful you'll be. Presumably you have a mortgage. Would your wife mind your being away at nights?'

‘Yes. She'd put up with it, especially if we were making money.'

‘Which you won't be for a start?'

‘That's the snag. We're starting late. It might be some years before we get recognized. I've some private pupils I'll be able to fit in. Jim Talbot'll find me casual work. I think Lorna wants me to give it a whirl. I'm the one dragging his feet. I thought I quite liked a flutter. What did you think about your wife going to America?'

‘She would have regretted not taking the chance.'

‘And you let her go. If she makes a success of it, you might never get her back. Not in the old sense. She'll be dodging about the world.'

‘That's so.'

‘And you still let her go?' Question and statement.

‘The financial situation's different from yours.'

‘I see that.'

David, suddenly reduced, debated whether to unburden himself to the man, decided against it.

‘We did ourselves proud tonight,' he said, dredging the muddy sentence up.

‘Ye'. Thanks for the lift, then. Seeing yer.'

Wilkinson had left the car, slammed the door and disappeared up the entry of his house, quick as a snake.

For the first time David saw the face of the street, a well-built terrace of workmen's cottages, each decorated differently with bright colours. One had white shutters; several flush doors. Curtains varied; pink lace to heavy yellow; one or two tenants had replaced the sash windows with black lengths of plate glass. Families lived here; made their mark. Fifty years ago, the doors would have been brown, varnished with artificial combed grain; only wear and tear marking off one from another. Now doors and windows, drainpipes and ledges had the garishness of a fairground.

That represented human effort. Men pleased their wives and established their egos with this free-for-all do-it-yourself.

He did not like it.

DAVID SPENT THE
last Thursday and Friday of his Easter holiday with the Trent in Lincolnshire. They performed on Wednesday evening in Stamford; drove north early next morning to Cleethorpes where they demonstrated themselves about the district for two days in secondary schools, already launched into their summer term; and concluded with Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, on the Saturday in Lincoln Cathedral. David drove back in the darkness, over flat roads, to Newark, along the Fosse, tired.

He had wasted his time; fatigue plagued his limbs; he yawned all the way.

Tomorrow, without a rehearsal, he would lounge about, preparing for the opening of term on Monday. He would see nobody, as his parents were holidaying in Cornwall; he would eat out of the fridge and since he had done no shopping would need to scout round for bread before he could have breakfast. He had not enjoyed the trip as he had expected; they had played together a good deal, had socialized with schoolteachers and culture-vultures while he had drunk more beer, precious little at that, than he had for months. The three nights in bedrooms in small hotels had not been uncomfortable, but the scratch nature of the school performances, nothing longer than a Mozart first movement, seemed unnecessarily unsatisfactory. The pupils looked interested enough, listening passively; even the final full concert in the cathedral had disappointed. The organizers blamed each other for lack of publicity, and certainly the audience was not large, seeming to crouch in dwarf rows round the quartet whose playing, good enough, precise, vibrant at the point of origin, long-bowed, dissipated itself into the huge darkening spaces of that great building. The prodigality of ordered stone about them diminished Mozart and Beethoven; he had never felt this before. It was as though the Lord God hovered and listened, a Jehovah compared to whom the divine sonorities of these gifted beings were as the lisping babble of a child learning to talk. He knew, and he regretted the knowledge, for the first time that music had limitations, that in eternity one would not listen to Mozart.

Perhps he was at fault. His colleagues were not displeased. This was to them the beginning of their professional career; some hundreds of people who had previously been ignorant of their existence now could name, remember the Trent Quartet. They had started, and saying little, keeping fingers crossed, went down to their houses, justified.

‘Have you enjoyed it?' Barton in the windy darkness in Lincoln on the castle hill where they had parked. Payne and Wilkinson were staying behind in the Bell for a last drink.

‘Yes. Very good.'

Barton pulled himself up from the boot where he was stowing away a portmanteau, took two or three steps over towards David, who stood as if uncertain of his next action.

‘You'll have to put her out of your mind, David. Sooner or later.'

David Blackwall nodded; Barton might, like Cicero, have spoken Greek.

‘There's plenty going for you, however it looks now.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘You can't let her ruin your life. I know that's what it seems like, but you'll get over it. I've been meaning to say this to you all week, but I could never find a minute when there wasn't somebody else about. But you looked so down in the mouth.' That surprised David, who had been sprightlier than usual, he flattered himself. ‘You get over these things to a large extent. They might even bring good.'

‘Thanks, Cyril.'

‘I bet you wonder who I am to be poking my nose in. A bachelor. A mother's boy. But I think I know your,' he paused, ‘desolation.' The word struck chilly in that place of thick shadows and stars. ‘And you mustn't let it beat you.'

‘No.'

‘I like you, David. It's been a privilege for me to have dealings with you. And I won't have you crippled for life.' He backed away immediately and slammed down the open boot lid. He sniggered, a trivial, vulgar sound. ‘Here endeth the lesson.' David saluted as Barton drove off.

Not three miles out of the town he passed Cyril, hooted, yawning, raised a hand. He could not make out whether the signal was returned.

‘I won't have you crippled for life.' He examined the words, over, over again, but they had no relevance to his situation. He had not allowed this to maim him; he'd worked, occupied the corners of his soul, bent his will so that he believed he could live without Mary. These last three months had proved it. Driving fast, but without danger, he fought to check the squalls in his head. His pride had taken a thrashing; he could not yet easily confess to others that his wife had left him for another man. He could barely grasp that this was possible; the likelihood pained rawly. He turned off at Newark, still wrestling with himself; later he rounded the traffic island built above a Roman army camp at Margidunum, crossed the Trent, half closed his eyes against the dipped headlights of returning revellers. Bedroom windows in Burton Joyce were illuminated; people had had enough of the day, or stripped for the last rites, love.

By the time he had closed his garage doors he was almost asleep. The house smelt damply stale, the letters on the hall floor were uninteresting, three advertisements, one telling him that he had won a prize, and that if he claimed it by merely signing this form and posting it off at once he was in line for a Mini-Metro, a bill, the demand exactly as he had calculated, and a note from a university friend inviting him and Mary to a wedding. He poured out orange juice, swigged it down, decided he could wait neither for a bath, nor for his electric blanket to warm his bed, staggered upstairs, dragged his clothes off and was asleep inside five minutes.

The telephone disturbed him next morning.

Seven thirty. Nobody rang him at that time on Sunday. He ran downstairs in his pyjamas, expecting a wrong number.

‘Hello, David Blackwall.'

At least they'd hung on.

‘Hello, David. It's me. Mrs Stiles.' His mother-in-law had never quite known how to name herself in his presence.

‘Ah, hello.

‘David, we've heard from Mary.'

Why had the silly woman stopped? He had no inclination towards social prodding.

‘She's coming home.'

The sentence stirred him, but strictly within the context of his lethargy. He felt improperly awake, yet, his father's expression, rousted about. Breathing became instantly difficult. He seemed to hold the telephone to his ear only by some long-acquired habit.

‘She rang Friday. I've been trying to get you ever since. That's why I've rung early. I thought you might be going out again.'

‘I've been in Lincolnshire.'

‘That'll be the reason then. She rang about nine, our time, on Friday, to say she was coming back.'

‘When?'

‘She's not sure. Soon. This week perhaps.'

‘What about the opera?'

‘It's done, finished.'

Mrs Stiles was in no hurry. Why didn't she anticipate his questions, overflood him with information, instead of idling about with her snippets?'

‘She didn't say a great deal, really.'

‘Is she going back?' David asked.

‘Going back? Where?'

‘To America.'

‘That's not my impression. She's coming home for good.'

Again they paused. These pitiful bits of sentences carried enormous weight, stress.

‘Is she coming back here?' he began again. ‘Home? To me?'

‘No, David.' The voice mumbled, sluggish, miserable. ‘To us. To Derby.'

‘Did she say anything about me?'

‘Well, when she told us this, I said, “Am I to tell David?” and she said I could please myself.'

‘What about this Gage man?' He could only bear to name him in such terms.

‘She hardly said anything. I took it that was over, though she didn't say as much. She seemed very low. Not like her. It worried me.'

‘And what did you say?'

‘What could I? I said she'd be welcome.'

‘What about the opera, then?'

‘As far as I could make out, they came back to New York, went to Yale, would that be right?, and just finished. There were no more performances wanted. The conductor, Ulrich, had gone off somewhere else. It just finished.'

‘And left her without work?'

‘Well, yes. I should think so. She didn't say.'

‘And she said nothing about coming back to me?'

‘No. She didn't. She wasn't very talkative. And I was flabbergasted. She wasn't sure of anything, the air flight, the day, anything.'

‘Did she seem worried? Or ill?'

‘Well, yes. Listless. As if it was all too much trouble to bother. We've got her old bedroom ready for her, so it don't matter much when she arrives. We'll have to make her welcome, whether we like it or not. I said to her dad, “She's our child, whatever she's done.” But I also told him, “We've got to keep David informed.”'