Authors: Roz Southey
Demsey clattered out to me, grabbed my coat sleeve. “Charles! That damned fellow – looked straight through me!” His round face was red with fury. “Pretended he knew
nothing about it.”
“About what?”
“That latest advertisement,” Hoult said. He had moved to a stray shaft of sunshine on the wall and added apologetically, “One of the maids overheard you talking about it. The
gossipy maid – the one that died two years back.” The communication of spirits is legendary; it is said they can pass a message from one end of the town to the other before a man can
draw a breath.
“Oh, shut up, Hoult!” Demsey cried. “Go and intrude on someone else’s private conversation!”
Old Hoult sniffed, and the stones in the wall lost a certain sheen just as young Hoult emerged and blinked at the sunlit yard in happy complacence, as his late father did many a time before
him.
“What has Le Sac to do with the advertisement?” I said tolerantly and prepared myself to pretend to listen.
“Le Sac? Not him. You have the fellow on the brain!” Demsey was beside himself. I’ve seen him work himself into a frenzy this way and young Hoult must have too; he was looking
our way in some concern.
“Not Le Sac,” Demsey repeated. “That crony of his who has the nerve to call himself a dancing master.”
“Ah,” I said. “Nichols.” It was the same old story, the one we have all heard a dozen times these past three years. Demsey, like the assiduous businessman he is, goes off
to London every summer to learn the latest dances so he may bring them back to the eager young ladies and gentlemen of this town. Nichols, who is not so handsome nor so young and much more
disapproving in his manner to his pupils, sees an opportunity to increase his meagre practice and sets in the paper an announcement, something of this sort:
We hear from London, that a certain Mr D----y, dancing master in this Town, is not to return but has set up a School in Clerkenwell, where he teaches the Sons and Daughters of Lord A---- and
Lady Y----.
Some years Demsey is said to remain elsewhere (Bath last year, if I recall correctly) but the general purport of the announcement is the same. And every year Demsey must tour every rich house in
the town to leave his card and say, yes, he is returned and yes, he will open School again next week.
Demsey had stopped speaking and was glowering at the stairwell. The man himself stood there, staring at us over the bridge of his nose, imitating the haughty mien of the worst kind of gentleman.
He kept his distance from young Hoult, I noticed.
“Ah, Mr Light-Heels,” I said, then covered my mouth as if stricken by my
faux-pas
. “Forgive me, I cannot imagine what I was thinking. Mr
Nichols
. Am I wanted? Do
we begin again?”
“If you can tear yourself away from such riff-raff company,” he said. He has a voice like a turkey. Young Hoult smirked in my direction.
So it was back to the shadows at the back of the band where I must know the music by rote for all the light there was to read it. Light-Heels Nichols stood where I could see his disdainful
profile as he cradled his violin in his arm. Le Sac regretfully took his leave of his patroness and strode to the pile of music books at a side table. What were we to play now? Some concerto
violino by Corelli, perhaps, or Geminiani? Or one of Le Sac’s own works, so that he could show off his skill in the solo passages?
One thing was for certain; it would not be
my
music. I had the audacity to give him a piece for violins when I first came back from London, when I did not know him. He has not yet
finished tearing it to pieces.
The wainscoting to my left acquired a sudden sheen. “You know,” old Hoult said conversationally, “I never did like music. Or musicians. But I except you.”
“Most generous.”
“No airs about you,” he said. “Never look down on folk.” The room was full of murmuring; Le Sac was still searching through his books. He straightened with a face like
fury. Old Hoult said, “O – ho,” and disappeared.
The music, it seemed, had been stolen.
2
CONCERTO FOR SOLO HARPSICHORD
Movement I
It was midnight when I came at last to Mrs Hill’s in the Fleshmarket. When I pushed into the ale-room, it was almost deserted except for a few glum miners hunched over
their tankards, listening unwillingly to the raucous singing (a bawdy song I had not heard before, strophic with a distinctive Scotch snap). The spirits singing the tune were an oily patina across
a table in a dark corner of the room and sounded drunk. Everyone who departs this life in an inn is drunk, except perhaps for the landlord. But I never encountered Mr Hill; he was killed, I
understand, in a brawl among Scotch keelmen on the Key.
Demsey glowered from a far corner, his eyes as bright as the brass buttons on his immaculate coat. His hands cupped a full tankard; another was set beside it for me.
“Damn Light-Heels,” he said as I sat down. “Five pupils, damn it, five!” He added sourly, “What kept you? The concert must have been over hours ago.”
“Not what, who.” I sighed. The memory was not one I wanted to dwell upon. We had filled in the gap in the concert with one of Mr Handel’s overtures (a fine piece of work for
once) but our esteemed leader had not been inclined to let the matter of the missing music rest. He had steered clear of accusing me directly, but had indulged in many loud comments about his
‘enemies’ while casting significant glances at the harpsichord. I gulped down Mrs Hill’s excellent ale.
“How in heaven’s name does he suppose I made off with his precious band-parts? Am I supposed to have tucked them beneath my coat-tails and smuggled them into some secret cache? I was
never out of sight of half a dozen people!”
Demsey was plainly having trouble thinking. “Why?” he managed at last.
“The missing work is one of his own compositions. His favourite, he swears.”
“No, no.” Demsey shook his head. “Why
you
?”
“Oh, I am violently jealous of him, he supposes, and will seize every opportunity to do him down.” My face had burned at that hint, as it burned now. And Le Sac’s wide dark
eyes had gleamed at me; he had known, oh yes, he’d known, how much I envied him his pre-eminence in the Concerts. I took up Mrs Hill’s ale again. “It is not important. Le Sac will
have reached home and no doubt found the books still sitting on his table. Or his apprentice will say he took them to read upon his sickbed.”
“And there is another thing,” Demsey said violently. “His so-called phil –philanthropy towards his apprentice makes me sick.”
“You cannot condemn a man for his kindness to an injured boy.”
But Demsey was right. Any sensible man would have sent the boy back to his parents until his broken arm healed and it was seen whether he would play again. Le Sac, however, made pious noises
about his duty as a Christian loudly enough for everyone – everyone of consequence, at least – to hear.
Demsey banged down his ale and roared at the spirits on the other side of the room to be quiet. They did not even hesitate in their rollicking rhythms. “Le Sac – Nichols –
they’re both the same. One thing on the surface, another below it. I’m off home. Sleep off this damned ale.”
A hazy recollection of Demsey’s routine prodded at me. “Don’t you teach in Durham tomorrow? Damn it, Hugh, you will have to be up before dawn to get there.”
“Sleep on the horse,” he said thickly.
We parted at the inn door, shivering in the chill night air. I offered to see him to his lodgings, but he shook me off and staggered away, mumbling. I had seen him worse, much worse, yet still
get home safely, but I would have been glad to accompany him. I was wide awake and not pleased with my own company. Le Sac’s face kept rising before me; I saw constantly those gleaming eyes
and too-knowledgeable smile. Truth to tell, what I really envied him was his facility in composition. Vapid though those rants of his were, with their cascades of notes and meaningless
extravagances, they were still ten times better than the pretty tunes I turned out. Which was why I had not set quill to manuscript paper for months.
In the wider spaces of the Bigg Market, I drew breath and slowed. The bright shining of the moon lit the dark corners and doorways where thieves generally linger, and gleamed on a faint
glittering of frost, the first harbinger of winter. I heard the distant call of a drunk and a raucous laugh. My mind was dulled, cut off, curiously detached. I felt despondent; it is unpalatable to
know that your dearest wish in life is beyond your capabilities.
So I wandered I don’t know where until I found myself in Caroline Square, that newly built monument to our beloved Queen. As I stood beneath one of the trees of the central gardens, the
elegant facades of the houses seemed to lean mockingly over me, the new white stone gleaming in the moonlight, darkened windows reflecting back the crisp night sky with its speckle of bright stars.
Only two of the householders had hung out their lanterns, so the place was nearly dark, although lights flickered behind two or three of the uppermost windows.
The house directly ahead of me belonged to Lady Anne, Le Sac’s patroness. Lights still showed on the first floor. Perhaps the lady lingered awake after the stimulation of the concert;
perhaps she had brought Le Sac back here to bestow on him the honour of a glass of wine and the illusion, for a short while, of being an equal. Le Sac was too intelligent to mistake such patronage
for genuine friendship, but he was a businessman and would accept the benefits it brought.
Approaching the house, I stumbled on a stone and caught at the railings to prevent myself falling. For a moment the world tilted oddly, seemed to blur. Perhaps I was more drunk than I had
thought. A sudden chill made me shiver, a deeper darkness suddenly descended. I panicked, grabbed at the railing, found nothing.
The flickering lantern light returned.
I was no longer in Caroline Square. I was standing on an ordinary street, hemmed in by houses of the sort wealthy tradesmen or the gentry occupy, old but well-kept for the most part. A few
lanterns burned over the doors; raindrops touched softly and damply against my hands.
The house immediately in front of me was well-lit; lamps hung over the door, candles guttered behind curtains on the upper storeys. From one of the rooms at the front, just behind the railings,
bright light fell across the street like a pool of water. I walked forward in a daze and looked through the window. Inside was a scene of revelry; eight or ten ladies and gentlemen sat at a table
that was laden with food. Footmen were reaching to remove the soup tureen, replacing it with a platter of fish wrapped in pastry. Guests were laughing; one gentleman was whispering to his pretty
young neighbour.
I looked from one figure to another. A stout, red-faced man of middle age sat at the head of the table; the lady at his right looked very like the wife of the mayor. I shifted to see the other
end of the table. There was Lady Anne, in full rig with satins rippling, one ringlet falling across her shoulder, bending to listen to the elderly gentleman on her left.
I strained my ears but could hear nothing. It was a dumb show in front of me. Perhaps the thickness of the glass muffled the sound. The pretty girl looked straight at me, looked away. She had
plainly not seen me.
Cold was in my bones, like the worst ice of winter. My foot slipped, I pitched forward…
And found myself once again gripping the railings in Caroline Square.
The moon was extinguished behind a cloud; huge cold drops of rain slapped against my face. I ran. I am not ashamed to admit it. I ran through the near-deserted streets,
ignoring the jibes of drunks and whores, ignoring the dirt and the dark corners, the curious spirits and the excited dogs. I was drunk, yes, I was drunk. I kept repeating that litany to myself
– it had all been an ale-induced delusion. What else
could
it have been?
By the time I turned into my own street, I was almost calm again.
And there, at my door, was a posse of people: three or four neighbours, a woman of the streets, and lanky Thomas Bedwalters, the parish constable. And, of course, Le Sac.
3
CONCERTO FOR SOLO HARPSICHORD
Movement II
I wished them all at the very devil and tried to brush past them to the door. But Bedwalters turned on me a weary gaze.
“Mr Patterson, sir,” he said. “We have been waiting to see you for some time.”
Somehow I found myself apologising to him. Bedwalters is the kind of man everyone apologises to. “I trust you are not cold.”
“No, sir. I had a pint of ale before I came out, expressly for the purpose of fortifying myself against the chill air.”
“I require my music!” Le Sac cried. “Patterson, return to me my music!”
He was wrapped in a heavy greatcoat that made him seem squatter than usual and his cheeks were so red that it would have been easy not to take him seriously. Yet, staring at his flushed face, I
had the impression that he sincerely believed I had his music.
My landlady’s spirit gleamed brightly on the door knocker. “I have been explaining to these gentlemen,” Mrs Foxton said, “that I cannot allow them into your room without
your permission.”
Her words caused an outburst from the posse gathered around Bedwalters. Phillips the brewer cried out that women had no business obstructing the law, especially not
dead
women. Monro the
cheesemonger sniffed and said that private concerns must inevitably give way to public matters for the sake of society. Shivering and feeling sick, longing only for my own company, I waited for
Bedwalters to restore order.
“It is, I understand,” he said, “within my powers to request that those persons not directly concerned with this matter should retire to their homes.”
No one questioned whether it was indeed within his powers. No one ever questioned Bedwalters. I once ventured into the room of his writing school and spied two very small scholars laboriously
but industriously inscribing letters in fearful silence; in equal silence, the neighbours withdrew, putting on an air of dignity that suggested they followed Bedwalters’s instructions only
because they chose to. Only the street-walker remained; she closed up behind Bedwalters, setting her head against the back of his shoulder and stroking his arm.