The Chorister at the Abbey (9 page)

16

The singers also and trumpeters shall he rehearse . . .
Psalm 87:7

That evening, Edwin looked in astonishment at the heaving group of people in the chancel of the Abbey. It was the first meeting of the New Year. Usually after Christmas it was hard to herd everyone back because of the weather and the dark. But this time, everyone was there. And there were three . . . no, four new people milling round in the group. He thought he’d better take some names.

‘Hi, I’m Edwin Armstrong, the secretary. And you are?’

‘David Johnstone. The estate agent. You must have heard of us. New member. I’m here with my lady wife. Pat?’ the man called. ‘Get over here and meet this chap.’

‘Well, David, it’s nice to see you. We do usually have a very simple audition, but I don’t think we’ll have time to do that now . . .’ Edwin looked around wildly for the musical director, Robin, a small fussy man who was also the Abbey choirmaster. He would not be impressed by the sudden invasion of hopefuls.

‘Which part do you sing?’ Edwin asked David Johnstone.

‘Oh, bass of course,’ the man boomed at him. Edwin knew the choirmaster was keen on younger voices and David Johnstone looked to be in his sixties, but his spoken voice was clear and confident enough. And men were at a premium.

‘Used to be a boy chorister, y’know,’ Johnstone was saying, though he knew hanging about at the edge of the Fellside Male Voice Choir while his father drunkenly bawled was hardly the same as singing ‘Oh for the Wings of a Dove’ in Westminster Abbey. But he went on gamely: ‘And we do know some other people here – the Dixons.’

Edwin’s heart sank. The Dixons both had thin voices. Brian Dixon had a posh accent and a ferrety face; his wife was inclined to sing flat. They contributed far more fuss and angst than volume to the Chorus.

‘And you?’ Edwin asked Pat Johnstone. ‘Which part do you sing?’

‘Oh, you know, I like to sing the tune.’

Edwin’s heart sank further. He needed good sopranos desperately but Pat sounded like another wavering Millie Dixon.

‘Thanks,’ he added courteously. ‘Do take a seat in the stalls.’ Pat looked rather shocked and her eyes widened. Then she cackled.

‘The choir stalls,’ Edwin said. ‘Not the loos.’

‘Ooh, silly me! By the way, do we wear robes?’

‘Only occasionally for some big services.’

‘They’re not man-made velvet, are they? I’ve got an allergy.’

‘No, they’re not.’

This was going to be a fun practice. There were two other newcomers. The next was a handsome fair-haired younger man who smiled warmly at Edwin.

‘Hi. I’m Mark Wilson. I heard about the Chorus because I’m involved with the Church. I go to Fellside Fellowship.’

‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought this sort of thing was for you.’

‘Well, I’m new to it, I must admit. But I can read music and play guitar. I think I’m probably a tenor.’

‘You are? That’s good news. If you sit in the choir stalls, I’ll make sure you get a place next to Tom Firth. He’s our rising star in the tenor line.’

Mark beamed back. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘And there’s me!’ A very large man with a long grey ponytail moved out of the crowd, leaving a wake behind him. Oh no, Edwin thought. Freddie, Wanda Wisley’s partner. What on earth could he be doing here?

‘Hello, Edwin,’ Freddie was roaring. ‘I read about the choir after that man was killed and thought,
ja
, it sounds interesting and I would like to sing. Different style, but what the hell, eh?’

He nudged Edwin heartily. At least Freddie was honest about his motives.

A minute later he called everyone to order. There was the usual interminable shuffling into the stalls, with people saving places for their friends or clambering into the front row.

‘Everyone, shall we start with a minute’s silence for Morris?’ There was some nudging and shushing and everyone looked suitably reflective.

‘Thank you, everyone.’ Edwin broke the silence sixty seconds later. ‘Welcome back to our weekly practices. Robin and I’ – he indicated the choirmaster, who smiled icily at the group – ‘have been discussing our next concert. The suggestions this time are from Robin, who’d like to nominate Duruflé’s Requiem, which is a beautiful and unusual piece, and of course Stainer’s
Crucifixion
which is much simpler and more congregational and was suggested by poor Morris, before he died. Any thoughts?’

There was always a huge hubbub at this stage and Edwin often had to work very hard to keep the members happy. The more ambitious singers had been voluble before Christmas in wanting the Duruflé and a row with Morris Little had seemed inevitable. But, for the first time Edwin could remember, all the choristers seemed to be saying the same thing with more or less dutiful enthusiasm.

David Johnstone coughed noisily. ‘Look,’ he boomed in his deep voice, ‘I know I’m a newcomer, first time here tonight and all that. But that’s why I’d like to speak. It seems to be everyone’s view that we should do what poor Mr Little wanted. I had the greatest respect for him. It would make sense, wouldn’t it, to sing the music of his choice? And perhaps to even dedicate the concert to him?’

‘And wasn’t Morris talking about a local connection? With the Stainer?’ Brian Dixon piped up.

‘Well, I’m not entirely sure about that,’ Edwin said tactfully, ‘but Morris was certainly very keen on doing the piece.’

‘And surely we should take account of his wishes,’ Johnstone boomed again.

‘Well, that settles it,’ Edwin said. ‘I’ve brought my CD player. Let’s familiarize ourselves with Stainer’s
Crucifixion
.’

He was reassured when the music started. He had forgotten how evocative it was and felt guilty for feeling snobbishly that it was too simple for the Chorus. He listened as the opening bars of the organ music soared under the tenor voice.
And they came to a place named Gethsemane
. . . The beauty of the piece asserted itself, and Edwin found himself concentrating.

Then there was a sudden shuffling movement at the back of the stalls and Edwin looked up. Yet another new member was coming to join the Chorus, but this one was very tentative. She stood unnoticed by most of the choir, who were intent on the rousing melody of ‘Fling wide the gates’. Then she saw Edwin and smiled. He was amazed at how that smile transformed Alex Gibson’s face.

The following week, Wanda Wisley made it public that she was having a prestigious lunch party and inviting everyone to bring partners.

‘You must bring someone, Edwin,’ she said with a touch of malice. ‘I don’t want spare people hanging about.’

Her invitation caused Edwin problems. He was wary of asking any of the single women in the choir. As a group the sopranos were rather weak. One had a boyfriend in Glasgow; one was having a painful affair with a married bass; one was rather butch; and the fourth was very pretty, in her early twenties and very giggly. She was already being targeted by David Johnstone who stared at her breasts, and bought her bottles of Bacardi Breezer in the pub while Pat either watched indifferently or let rip with her horrible cackling laugh.

After the third practice of the term Edwin had found himself on the Abbey steps with Alex Gibson. He had asked her a few times how she had enjoyed the choir and she had mentioned how rusty she felt. She had bought a new red coat and seemed to have lost weight; that evening he had heard her quite clearly, a beautiful, rich mezzo-soprano which sounded surprisingly young.

‘You seem to be fitting in well,’ he said. ‘Are you coming to the Crown and Thistle?’

‘Oh . . . No, I don’t think so. I’m trying to cut down on drink.’

‘Post-Christmas is always a problem, isn’t it?’

‘With me its post anytime, I’m afraid. I was drinking far too much.’

‘I went through a patch like that,’ said Edwin. ‘It crept up on me. I wasn’t eating and I hardly noticed how much drink I was putting away.’

‘I always eat! But it hit me a few weeks ago when I went to church, saw the chalice coming and thought, hair of the dog.’

Edwin laughed. ‘So I guess I can’t persuade you?’

‘No, but thanks anyway. I’d better get back.’

For Alex, the confession had been simple but saying it made her shake. She had intended to open a bottle of wine at home, alone, as usual. Her drinking was a private affair, and she realized she had refused his invitation because she was scared of going to the pub and getting drunk with other people. The insight shocked her.

When she got home, she went to the fridge and then paused. On Chorus practice nights she came home much later than usual. If she could do without a drink at half past six, why start at half past nine? But without the wine, how would she relax? What was the point of the day? Her hand twitched towards the fridge handle. And then she remembered Edwin’s face. She had refused his invitation on the grounds she was drinking too much. She felt uncomfortable about deceiving him even though he would never know. She didn’t have to give up drink forever. But how about . . . well, just not having one tonight?

She would need something to do, to keep her mind off it. In the dark living room, which still held her mother’s frayed three-piece suite, there was a chest of drawers. Alex had stuffed some of her own papers there when she had moved in. She had always kept meticulously researched notes for her work. They were cramming the drawers now, her notebooks discarded, rammed away where she couldn’t see them.

In the third drawer down, she found the
Dixit Dominus
score. Just opening it reminded her of the best days of her marriage. But instead of letting anger choke her, she tried to think about the music.

Under the score, an old tape cassette fell out. On it was a Post-It note, with her husband’s writing:
S. McFay: Bass
. Alex waited for the friendly pain, but it didn’t come. She took the cassette and inserted it in the ancient radio cassette player in the kitchen, wincing at the amount of grease that was clogging up the buttons. The music sounded alien, thin and strange at first, but she realized it wasn’t the Handel which was at fault, but the unfamiliarity of any music in her kitchen.

Then she found herself scrabbling to find the place in the score. It really was so beautiful and very challenging. She sang along with the recording, listening to her own voice filling the drab kitchen. An hour later she made some tea, drank it, and went to bed with her head full of music. The next morning she woke after sleeping for six hours, her first continuous natural rest for months. It was another grey, dreary, winter’s day, but this time Alex was looking forward to it.

It was later the next evening, when she was practising the Stainer, that Edwin Armstrong rang. ‘Are you busy a week on Sunday?’

‘I’ll just look in my handheld organizer, also known as a pocket diary. Yes, that’s free.’

Edwin laughed. ‘I’m not sure you’ll be interested, but my boss in the Music Department, Wanda Wisley, is having a drinks party. I’m invited and she’s asked me to bring a guest. She’s made quite a fuss about the fact that no one is supposed to go alone.’

There was a long pause. Alex felt surprised and then suspicious.

‘So you want me to go with you?’ Her voice was cynical, more sophisticated than he remembered.

‘Yes, I do.’ Edwin felt uncomfortable. Perhaps this was a misguided move. He had thought that Alex Gibson was the last person anyone would take as a serious partner. By inviting her he would be proclaiming his singleness more effectively than by going alone. And like many men he had assumed she would be grateful. But suddenly, he felt that Alex had rumbled him.

‘So you think that by taking a fat old frump like me you’ll call Wanda’s bluff, do you?’

He said, ‘I’m sorry. Please forget about it.’

‘I don’t want to forget about it. I want to know why you asked me.’

He felt the prickly blush of embarrassment creeping over him. It had been totally wrong of him, cruel even, to use Alex in this way. He was being arrogant, insensitive, having a private joke at someone else’s expense.

‘Because . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Because I like you and I know that with you, there’d be no fuss.’ He paused. She said nothing, so he went on: ‘I think Wanda insisted on me taking a partner to embarrass me. Everyone knows I’ve been on my own for quite a while. I’m always awkward at these things.’

Suddenly Alex’s voice sounded light and amused. He wanted to mumble some further explanation but it wouldn’t come. And then he realized she was laughing.

‘You’re in a hole, so stop digging! Actually, Edwin, I’d love to come! I can’t wait to see Wanda Wisley’s face when you turn up with the drudge from the Finance Department. I might have to put my knickers on my head and give you all a rendition of “I will survive”. This could be fun.’

Fun was not an Edwin Armstrong word, but suddenly he suspected that it might be an Alex Gibson one. And for the first time in a long time, he wanted to do something with no catch, alongside a woman who was old enough and worldly enough to take Wanda Wisley in her stride.

‘So you’ll come?’

‘Yes, knickers or not.’

Alex knew that when Edwin rang off he was both relieved and embarrassed, and it amused her. Later, the inevitable worry about the dress code at the party nearly sent her fridge-wards. And then she thought, what the hell does it matter what I wear? He’s taking me as a piss-take, so even in Mum’s Crimplene tracksuit and carpet slippers I’d be fulfilling my role.

But she was enjoying the idea of turning up at Wanda’s party and surprising them all. Including Edwin Armstrong.

17

They talk of vanity every one with his neighbour; they do but flatter with their lips and dissemble in their double heart.
Psalm 12:2

On the morning of the party, Wanda Wisley stood in her small kitchen feeling mildly hysterical. In front of her were trays of Marks and Spencer’s party food, piles of mismatched plates, and cutlery and napkins jostling for space. Her cleaner, a lumpy woman from the Chapterhouse estate, stood next to her.

‘Well, I don’t know how you expect me to deal with this,’ the woman said with a malicious air. ‘We’ll never get all them into the oven!’

‘I had no idea they needed heating,’ Wanda said. ‘But if they do, you’ll have to try and use your initiative.’

The woman gawped at her, standing with her arms folded while waiting for instructions. Having to give paint-by-numbers instructions to a grumpy ‘daily’ was not what Wanda had anticipated when she planned her party. Freddie of course was still upstairs, having snored his Saturday night excesses away, and finally risen to lock himself in the bathroom.

Wanda had made a big decision after Christmas to change the focus of her Norbridge social life. When she’d arrived in the autumn she’d tried to target what she thought of as the artistic community, but it had slowly dawned on her that the motley crew of painters, sculptors and writers she had latched on to were not the district’s movers and shakers. Artists in the Norbridge area tended to be New Age bohemians living in squalid crofts, or well-heeled business people with their own shops and galleries. They were not generally thought of as local celebrities.

One arena she was woefully ignorant about was the Abbey, which she had written off as impossible to penetrate. And then Freddie had joined this ridiculous choir and come home bleating about the important people there – the Johnstones who were filthy rich in property and talking about sponsoring concerts; the Dean who could open up the place to a college performance; the Dixons who seemed to be related to one of the major local landowners; the Cliffords and Clarks who seemed to know everyone; and of course that boring pain Edwin Armstrong.

So she had invited them, along with the college Principal of course, to a Sunday lunch party. This was to be high-powered. No flirting, no sex, no dope. They would all go to church, she assumed, so there was no way they’d arrive till well after one o’clock, would they? It was eleven forty-five, so surely she’d have enough time.

‘I don’t think we’ll get this done. They could be here any moment,’ said the cleaner with satisfaction.

‘What? I’m not expecting anyone before one.’

‘You said one o’clock on the invites. I saw,’ said the cleaner accusingly. ‘If you said one o’clock, they’ll be here at one! Or before one, mebbe.’

‘What? On time? Holy shit! Hicksville! So we’ve got about an hour to get it all done. Not being ready is not an option,’ snapped Wanda. ‘Just get your finger out, will you? The oven trays are there. I’m going to sort out the ice and the champagne.’

‘Ooh, very a-la-posh,’ mumbled the cleaner, and she started to open the packets, painfully slowly. Wanda switched on the oven with an angry flick of her wrist. The bloody thing had better heat up fast!

When she’d finished racing round, the living room of the cottage did look rather nice, Wanda thought, because she had bought dozens of hothouse flowers which she arranged, Mediterranean-style, in kitchenware, with buckets and jugs all round the place. A giant modern oil painting was propped on the mantelpiece and all the tatty chairs and needlepoint cushions had been relegated to the spare bedroom. Coats could go on the pegs in the porch – she had dumped Freddie’s huge fake Barbour and massive new cycling cape in the blanket box, where a fabulous arrangement of lilies and peonies balanced scarily on the top in an asparagus steamer.

‘Well, hello! Here we are!’ announced a booming voice.

The Johnstones were the first to arrive, fifteen minutes early, bringing a tired-looking box of Belgian chocolates which Wanda imagined they’d received for Christmas. But as far as she was concerned this confirmed that they were filthy rich. Everyone knew the rich were mean. She gushed over them, pouring champagne into flimsy flutes.

‘Cheers! Such a pretty . . . er . . . lounge,’ gushed Pat.

But the Johnstones didn’t want to talk to Wanda. They were clearly waiting to pounce on the college Principal. David Johnstone was involved in putting forward some sort of tender to sell college land. He really was a mover and shaker, Wanda thought. And he was donating money to ensure that proper programmes were printed for the Stainer concert with the names of benefactors in full, along with the Johnstone logo.

The cottage slowly filled up with couples. It had amused her to embarrass Edwin Armstrong by demanding loudly, in front of the Principal, that he brought a guest. One of the few bits of local gossip Wanda had picked up was that Edwin was alone after being dumped a few years ago. Strange! He wasn’t Jude Law but he wasn’t bad-looking – in fact she might have quite fancied him herself with his thick dark hair, square jaw and quiet manner – but there was a withdrawn, slightly superior quality about him which irritated her.

So who would he bring to the party? She could hardly wait to find out.

* * *

The day after receiving Edwin’s invitation, Alex had left work early, come home, called a contract cleaning company in Carlisle and arranged for them to blitz the bungalow. It was easy if pricey, but the one thing she had was money in the bank – booze was relatively cheap and she hadn’t bought much in the way of Christmas presents this year. She’d had an orgasmic time in Yellow Pages, calling window cleaners, gardeners, a plumber to sort out the drains in the bathroom and a gas installer to come and sort out, once and for all, why the kitchen always smelt as if fifteen big cats had peed in the sink.

Then she’d taken a deep breath and called a hairdresser. The effort of making the appointment had made her long for a whisky, but she’d told herself: no drink till she had lost a stone. The scales in the bathroom were grey with fluff and dust, so she had to take her glasses off and stoop to peer at the result – which was an unbelievable one hundred and eighty pounds. She had never been more than ten stone before. She started taking her clothes off, throwing shoes, socks, trousers, a fleece, a blouse and a hideous vest to the four winds till she was naked and had lost four pounds. She was going to get this down. She had never been slender but she had always been curvy. Now the curves had amalgamated into one large round ball. But the skin tone wasn’t bad and the boobs could be heaved up into place. She had good basic bones, and she suddenly caught sight of herself in the greasy mirror on her mother’s bathroom cabinet. She was smiling. For a moment Alex saw herself as she had been twenty-five years ago, in this same bathroom, before she had gone to London, to university and marriage.

I had a life before I met my husband, she suddenly thought. My mum loved me and told me I was beautiful, and my older sister said I had talent. She was right. I earned a living through my talent which is more than most people do. I was a happy person, in my own right.

She remembered her mother saying: ‘You get away from here, girl. You go to university. We’ll always be here if you need us.’ So she had gone to London to study, and then slowly and carefully worked away at her hobby until it had become a real job, and she had been successful. She had never looked back – till now.

Her mum had already been in decline when Alex had returned to Norbridge. That was what made Alzheimer’s so strange and cruel. It wasn’t just holes in the brain. The person changed. Everything became cruder and narrower. Her lovely mum, who had been so optimistic, so adventurous without ever living anywhere but Cumbria, had been reduced. And of course Alex had been reduced with her. Living with her mother, in what should have been the warm womb of the bungalow, she had really been in a box with her, buried alive.

The idea made her shudder. Being trapped was one of her greatest fears. Then she thought, I may have claustrophobia but I haven’t got dementia. I’m going to survive, like I told Edwin.

So here she was now, in Wanda Wisley’s cramped little sitting room, trying not to sneeze because of all the pollen from Wanda’s absurd flowers, flicking back her new shiny auburn hair from her plump but less flabby features. She was wearing a long black slinky skirt retrieved from the suitcase full of London clothes. The zip didn’t quite do up but it was covered by a deep red shirt with beads all over it, which she had bought in one of those wonderful cottage-industry craft shops you could find only in Cumbria. She had even bought a matching lipstick.

And Edwin had said, ‘Oh! You look rather exotic. But where are the knickers for your head?’

‘Darling, don’t tell anyone but I’m not wearing them!’ To her relief, Edwin had thrown his head back and laughed. It was a good sign.

‘I thought you were a good churchgoer,’ he said.

‘Actually,’ she said, more seriously, ‘I’m an agnostic really. I go to church through habit. Any faith I had, I lost when I was divorced. Does that bother you?’

‘Not at all,’ Edwin said. ‘It’s interesting.’

I
am
interesting, Alex thought for the first time in years. So here she was, orange juice in hand, making conversation with the great and good of Norbridge. And only once had she caught herself straining to see her husband who wasn’t there.

But someone else was. Across the room Alex saw Robert Clark. It hadn’t occurred to Alex he would be here at a Music Department party. But Norbridge was a small place and she should have realized everyone socialized with everyone.

Bugger. She had to behave normally. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, uncertainly.

‘Who’s that?’ Robert said to Lynn Clifford.

‘Oh, that’s Alex. You know her – she found Tom Firth with Morris’s body. Now she’s joined the Chorus. I think she usually wears her hair tied back and sits at the dark end of the stalls.’

‘Oh, I know who you mean. I just didn’t recognize her. Big woman. Grey!’

‘Well, she was!’ Lynn laughed. ‘She’s certainly made an effort today. I used to think she was rather negative but she’s got quite a sense of humour. It always helps.’

It certainly does, Robert thought. He felt rather low. At the last minute Suzy had been commandeered to take Jake to the Fellside Fellowship so he had come on his own, much to Wanda’s irritation. He was missing Suzy’s commentary on the guests. But that wasn’t all. In this awful, dreary month, with such a formal coolness between them, he longed for her jokes and the old cheeriness of their unlikely love affair. But he had been the one who suggested cooling it. And he had to stick with that.

He looked across the room again, as Alex moved to talk to the Johnstones. For a minute he thought . . . It was ridiculous. But he felt as if someone had walked across his grave. Or Mary’s.

The Cliffords left the party early. Neil had a christening at three o’clock and Lynn was busy. She would be working all the next week, helping out at Uplands School. Sometimes she ran the church office, sometimes she helped at the Deanery, and once she had done a few weeks in the Abbey shop. It wasn’t the career she had expected but being a rector’s wife satisfied her in a way she had never thought possible.

The phone rang and she put down the laundry basket.

‘Mum.’ Chloe’s voice sounded tight. Lynn felt a frisson of alarm.

‘What is it, darling?’

‘Mummy, I want to come home.’ Chloe was crying – ugly, snuffling noises.

‘What on earth is wrong?’

Since her New Year’s Eve trauma, Chloe had changed. She had been quiet and unassuming, staying in and working on her revision, until she went back to university in January. Poppy had called once, but Chloe had told her she had too much work to go out.

Mother and daughter had talked more, though not with the intimacy that Lynn craved. She was aware that Chloe was holding back, and it worried her. Lynn was painfully conscious that she had had no mother of her own, and felt hampered and awkward in her reactions to her daughter. Her relationship with Chloe was so vital that she felt she ought to play it down to keep it in proportion. It would have been good to discuss this with another mum, but there was no one she felt she could talk to without somehow betraying Chloe or even Neil.

She had seen Jenny Whinfell in the shopping centre in Norbridge, and had toyed with the idea of asking her for a coffee and having a heart-to-heart. Chloe had babysat for the Whinfells and had said how ‘cool’ Jenny was. And she was a vicar’s wife. But Jenny had been in a hurry, with the baby in a buggy, and her manner had been rather distant. So Lynn had been left, adrift, wondering how to deal with the new Chloe.

Then her daughter had gone back to Leeds, and Lynn had genuinely thought Chloe was feeling much better. But this was a new crisis.

‘You’re in the middle of exams, darling.’

‘No, I’m not! Don’t you listen to anything? The exams finished on Friday.’

‘So did you go out? To celebrate?’

‘I’ve got nothing to celebrate. I hate it here!’

The sound of sobbing came bursting down the landline. Oh dear, Lynn thought. Chloe had always been a bit of a party animal in the past.

‘Darling, if you really feel bad, you can come home just for a week. Get the train tomorrow.’

The sobbing lessened enough for Chloe to say miserably, ‘But what about the train fare?’

‘Oh, I suppose you’d better use your card and I’ll give you the cash.’

The little voice was instantly brighter. ‘OK, Mum, I’ll be on the eleven twenty-five tomorrow morning.’ She’s all organized, thought Lynn. She’s planned this. But why is she so desperate to come home? And what will Neil say?