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Monday, January 17, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Two extracts from my novel, I CAN'T FORGET YOU.
PROLOGUE - MAY 1974
Derek Bailey is one of Britain's finest tenors. He never forgets Elspeth McPhail, the young Scottish house-keeper who worked for him when he was starting his career in the thirties. Although he becomes famous and successful his personal life is far from fulfilling.
This novel covers Derek's professional and personal life over a span of forty years including his two unsatisfactory marriages and his five-year affair with a girl young enough to be his grand-daughter.
PROLOGUE - MAY 1974
“The guest in Musical Memories tonight is the distinguished tenor, Derek Bailey, who celebrates his seventieth birthday today. Join Michael Broadstairs in conversation with Derek Bailey at 8.30 this evening.”
The television set was the focal point of the tiny sitting room of the modest terrace house in South Lambeth. It stood at an angle in the corner of the room with the armchairs and couch of the old-fashioned maroon lounge suite facing towards it. The only other item in the room was a large veneer cocktail cabinet, which had been George Pratt’s proudest and most utilised possession when he was alive. He had died five years earlier, and the two remaining occupants of the little house had little use for it except as a handy receptacle for the odds and ends they brought into the room to keep themselves comfortable and well fed while they watched television.
Although it was springtime, the atmosphere was redolent with the mingled odours of fish and vinegar, more in keeping with a cold winter’s night than a pleasant spring evening. The elderly occupants were settled deep in their armchairs eating from TV trays.
Mrs Pratt, George’s widow, uttered an exclamation at the announcement. She turned eagerly to her younger sister, expecting her to react to the words in some way, but judging by the remote expression on Elspeth McPhail’s face, she doubted whether Elspeth had even heard the announcement. Her sister was eating her fish and chips slowly, staring at the television screen without registering any visible emotion.
“Did you hear that, El?” asked Mrs Pratt. “I thought he had died years ago. To think we’ll be seeing your old flame after all these years.”
Mary Pratt was surprised that Elspeth McPhail only smiled faintly in response. Mary thought it would be interesting to see Elspeth’s old boss again after nearly forty years, yet she doubted whether she would have the patience to listen to him blathering away about the technicalities of singing for the full half-hour. But it might cheer Elspeth up to see him and they could always switch over to the variety show if Derek Bailey’s interview proved too dull for them.
“You were a bonny girl and could have had any man you pleased, but after Derek Bailey married that singer Helen Dean, the sparkle seemed to go out of you.”
“I don’t want to talk about Derek Bailey,” Miss McPhail retorted irritably. “Let’s just enjoy the telly while we eat our tea.”
Somewhat disappointed at Elspeth’s calm demeanour in the light of the significant announcement on the TV, Mary Pratt fell silent and settled down again to watch her favourite soapie. After a bleak day doing her share of cleaning and cooking in the small house, she was only too pleased to immerse herself in Coronation Street where everybody led such eventful lives compared to their own dull lives, and even the most casual conversations proved to be of the deepest significance to the development of the plot. Periodically she glanced at Elspeth, but still her sister gave no outward hint of her feelings as she continued to stare impassively at the flickering television screen.
Mary could not help remembering that she herself had been responsible for curtailing Elspeth’s relationship with Derek Bailey. She had never told her sister that several years after his shot-gun marriage to Helen Dean, Derek Bailey had arrived at this very house in a distraught state, begging Mary to tell him how he could find Elspeth. She had sent him away, claiming that her sister was on the point of marrying someone else and refused to give Derek Bailey her address. At the time she thought she was acting in Elspeth’s best interests and that she would eventually marry Archie Taggart and forget all about Derek, but here she was, after a life time spent in domestic service, still unmarried with only distant memories of the halcyon days she had spent with Derek Bailey to sustain her.
Elspeth resented retirement. After forty years as housekeeper to a variety of employers, she found enforced inactivity dull. Her interests, once so varied, had been whittled down to occasional trips to the local library and mindless nights of fish and chips eaten on a tray in front of the telly. It was only when she was alone in her small bedroom that she was free to remember the exciting days when she had been ecstatically happy with Derek and had lived her life to the full.
Tonight, despite her outward calm in front of Mary, her long-term lethargy had indeed been dispelled. At the mention of her old employer’s name, her fingertips had tingled as long-forgotten emotions and memories, too deep-seated and intimate ever to share with her garrulous sister, resurfaced.
Derek Bailey had been Elspeth’s first employer shortly after she arrived from Scotland as a raw and ignorant young girl. He was making his name as a singer when she became his housekeeper, and after she left his employ, his glowing reference had ensured that she became housekeeper to a succession of other famous and sometimes titled people. But although the conditions of her employment and salary improved with every move she made, none of her subsequent employers ever made the profound impression on her life as Derek Bailey himself had done.
She had never stopped thinking of Derek for the rest of her life, nor had she found another man to match him, although she had received a few offers of marriage in her time. In the years of Derek Bailey’s success, she had listened to his broadcasts, collected his records and kept scrapbooks of cuttings about his performances and his colourful personal life. When she managed to save some extra money she had even attended some of his concerts and had felt proud that his performances were received with such enthusiasm. But over the last ten years, there had been fewer broadcasts, concerts, or newspaper cuttings to give her staid life the occasional frisson of excitement.
She had heard so little about him lately that she often wondered whether he was still alive and in good health. Her sister asked her why she took the Daily Telegraph. It seemed like a highfalutin newspaper for plain people like them. Elspeth justified buying the paper, citing that it was well-written with excellent political and arts coverage. She even whiled away her spare time trying her hand at the daily crossword. But she refused to admit to her sister that the real reason she took the paper was because of its extensive obituary page. If anything happened to Derek, she trusted the Daily Telegraph to let her know at once and to write a fitting tribute to him.
She would watch Musical Memories tonight. If she chose to do so, she could share with the world a number of non-musical memories concerning Derek Bailey, but so far she had never confided them to anyone, not even to her own sister. Nobody was ever likely to hear of the bond which had once existed between Elspeth McPhail, now a sixty-two year old working-class spinster, and Derek Bailey, celebrated tenor.
The intrigues of the folk in Coronation Street were lost to her that night as she thought of the intrigue of forty years before which had coloured her life for all time.
Linda Bailey regarded herself in her dressing-table mirror with well-founded satisfaction. She had been to her hairdresser that afternoon for a rinse and set. The light auburn colour of her hair suited her pale complexion and complemented her deep green eyes. She was wearing her low-cut, figure-hugging aquamarine evening dress and the ruby necklace and earrings Derek had given her as a present for a distant wedding anniversary. She anticipated the comments of the women at the party to be held in Derek’s honour after the interview.
“The old girl must be sixty if she’s a day, but doesn’t she still look marvellous? She could easily pass for thirty-five – in the right light!”
Linda looked forward to being the centre of attraction again, fêted by eminent theatrical and musical people because she was Derek’s wife. Derek had retired from the Kings Opera company some years earlier to become a celebrated teacher of singing at one of the music colleges, but his dry academic colleagues bored her in comparison to the flamboyant theatrical and musical colleagues she had known while he was still performing. It horrified her to realise that almost two generations knew Derek only from an occasional lecture-recital, the old seventy-eights and the few long-playing records he had made towards the end of his singing career.
On rare occasions when the BBC risked its recording equipment to play one of his records, there was usually a cautionary preface, “Now for one of our historical recordings by veteran tenor, Derek Bailey. Please excuse the scratchy surface...”
Linda tried to console herself with the fact that the veteran had worn very well and was still handsome and charming enough to turn a number of greying heads and, more worryingly for Linda, a few blonde, brunette and auburn heads also. She always made a determined effort to laugh off his flirtations with the legion of young women who were invariably flattered by the light-hearted attentions of a famous man.
She told friends airily that he had a predilection for young girls, aged eighteen to twenty-five, as though it was all a great joke, but it had amazed her that recently he had the gumption to expand one of these flirtations into a serious and long-lasting affair. It seemed she had managed to persuade Derek to end that ludicrous fiasco. He was going to see the little bitch for the last time tomorrow to let her know their affair was at an end, once and for all. At least, that is what Derek told her he would do but she was not sure whether she could believe him. But then, he had little reason to be entirely confident of her lasting fidelity and honesty either.
She turned to him. He was sitting in a fat armchair, sipping a small whisky. These days he preferred to spend the evenings at home reading an entertaining novel, rather than face the drive through busy London streets, but the invitation to appear on Musical Memories had been too intriguing to turn down.
He rose reluctantly with only the merest suggestion of creakiness, and glanced briefly at himself in his wife’s mirror. His evening suit was nearly twenty-five years old, but skilful alterations allowed it to hang as stylishly on him as it had ever done.
“Nobody will believe you’re a day over sixty, darling,” smiled Linda, reading his thoughts. “Not a bad looking pair for our ages, are we? We’ve been through some torrid times lately, but we are going to be happy now, aren’t we? Our marriage hasn’t been a complete disaster?”
Derek Bailey met his wife’s scrutinising gaze and made an effort to keep the doubt from reflecting in his sad dark eyes.
“You’re beginning to sound like a publicity handout, darling,” he said lightly. “Now then, are you ready? We’d better be off sharp otherwise there’ll be no memories, musical or otherwise tonight.”
As he put the ignition key into the Jaguar, he suddenly remembered that he had promised he would try to phone Jane before the broadcast. He had no trouble visualising her, seated on that little stool beside the telephone of the flat in Earls Court Square, eating her heart out because he had not rung her as he had promised. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand why Jane cared about him as she did. No matter how famous he had once been, he was only a tired old man who was finding it increasingly draining on his emotions to maintain their clandestine relationship. He was dreading tomorrow when he had promised Linda he would see Jane for the last time. Jane had asked little of him over the five years of their intense affair, but he knew she still cared for him deeply. Yet, since his return from Australia, he had sensed a subtle change in her, almost as if she were expecting their relationship to flounder but didn’t know how to rescue it.
He tried to shut thoughts of her out of his mind as he glanced at Linda. He had swept his entire life aside in his determination to marry her, caring nothing about the bad publicity he had received when he and Helen divorced shortly before the war, at a time when divorce was more difficult to obtain and caused more scandal than it would do today.
He could not even claim that Linda had been the love of his life. After Elspeth, no other woman had managed to stir the same depth of feeling in him. Certainly Linda had been a beautiful and charming young girl, but even before the divorce from Helen was final, his initial enchantment with her had already faded. He would have preferred to have held on to his hard won freedom and devote himself to his work without being tied down in another marriage, but he had felt obliged to marry Linda because of the scandal she and her family had endured during the divorce proceedings. But now the passage of time had dimmed the public’s memory of their shocking liaison, and their long marriage was generally considered to be a happy, fairy-tale confection.
Jane had never expected him to go through another publicity-laden divorce for her sake. He had made it clear from the beginning of their affair that he could never divorce Linda. He owed it to her to stay with her in their old age.
They had arrived at TV Centre. Derek braced himself for their entrance, and with a genial expression on his face he and Linda entered the foyer, arm in arm, the epitome of public happiness and graciousness. Michael Broadstairs was waiting for them. Usually he sent his assistant down to collect his guests, but Derek was one of his oldest friends from their early days in London.
“Marvellous to see you both,” he was saying, “You look younger every day, Linda, my dear.”
Linda basked in the warmth of Michael’s compliment and drew her soft wrap closer to her, flashing her charming smile at Michael, enveloping him in the glow of her outwardly warm personality. At that moment she felt confident in the lasting devotion of her husband. She had recovered from the shock of Derek’s five-year affair with a plain unassuming girl forty years his junior whom she would not have noticed at a dinner party, far less in a crowd.
Jane Walters was not really listening to what her mother was saying on the telephone. She kept glancing at her watch anxiously, wondering how she could stem the constant flow of Mrs Walters’ inconsequential chatter.
“.So Dad’s off to Kettering tomorrow to see whether Brownings will put the new clothing agency in his hands.”
Jane listened distractedly.
“It will mean the world to us if he gets this, Jane. You have no idea what a struggle it is trying to keep up appearances on Dad’s present commission. I sometimes wonder how we’ll manage to live when he retires. He hasn’t put enough away for us to be really comfortable in our old age.”
“Mum,” cried Jane desperately. “I have to go now. I’m expecting such an important call. I’ll phone you tomorrow, I promise.”
“Why is this call so important to you, Jane?” her mother asked idly, making Jane feel even more frantic as her mother launched into another trivial homily. “Has your agent another engagement for you? It amazes me how people can even afford to attend concerts at today’s prices. Dad and I can only manage to one if you are kind enough to give us complimentary tickets and, to be really honest, some of that modern music bores us stiff and Dad is inclined to nod off and snore – so embarrassing – but beggars like us can’t …”
“Yes, Mum, I know. Look after yourself and give Dad my love. Goodbye.”
Even as she replaced the telephone, she could hear her mother’s voice rambling on unabated. She would be hurt and accuse Jane of cutting her off. She knew she should have granted her mother her customary half-hour of chatter about inflation, the parlous state of the country and the St Albans social scene, but she was desperate to have the phone free in case Derek should have a spare moment by himself to phone before the television interview.
Dejectedly she slumped into her favourite easy chair in front of the television. She had turned the sound down in the vain hope that Derek might yet telephone, although she was beginning to doubt whether he would now, only half an hour before the live TV show was due to commence. Perhaps he’d been trying to call her while her mother hogged the line or perhaps Linda was all over him and he couldn’t find a moment to himself.
She could hear his voice offering the usual excuse for breaking this or that promise.
“It’s so difficult at times, darling. Linda is always with me when I’m at home.”
Jane often asked herself what on earth he and Linda found to do all the time they were together if he had really not slept with her for the last five years. She remembered an occasion when she and Derek were together in the flat after one of his prolonged holidays with Linda, nearly three years ago. She had been weeping foolishly because she saw so little of him, knowing even as she wept, that he hated tears and if she wept too often she might eventually drive him away. It was his wife’s prerogative to weep and nag. Jane, the mistress, was supposed to be cheerful, loving and light-hearted, unperturbed by broken promises, always understanding him when his wife failed to do so.
“You don’t think I actually sleep with her?” he had asked, outraged. “I haven’t been to bed with her for years. She’d wonder what the hell I was doing if I tried anything on like that! We don’t even share a bedroom.”
“But you say she loves you, that you can’t leave her...” Jane had trailed off hopelessly.
He had not answered. He didn’t want to get involved in a discussion about whether or not he could leave Linda. Instead, he drew Jane into his arms and made love to her for the second time that day with all the energy of a younger man and the deference and gentleness of an older one, willing her to forget her desolation at his departures and the futile existence she led without him as she lived in anticipation for the few stolen moments they could spend together.
While everyone insisted nowadays that marriage was not important, that girls could do as they pleased, Jane was beginning to feel she was missing out on one of life’s major experiences. All her friends were married with young children now, and although they thought she remained single because of her successful musical career as an accompanist, they persisted in arranging meetings with ghastly men who had nothing to recommend them except their bachelor status. Derek, on the other hand, was perfect in every way, but attached and therefore ultimately unattainable. Derek had driven the need for secrecy at her from all sides.
“Don’t trust anyone but yourself, darling,” he would say. “You only have to tell one person and before you know where you are everyone will hear about it, and if word gets back to Linda she would kill us both.”
She wished she could be honest with her friends, even if they thought it peculiar, even disgusting, for her to be involved with a married man older than her own father. She had not dared to tell Derek that she had confided in her closest friend, Louisa. Jane looked forward to visiting Louisa, knowing she could trust her not to gossip about the affair, or condemn her as a two-timing slag. Jane knew that it was Derek who had everything on his side: a pretty, discreet young woman, who adored him, was available at the shortest notice, and made no demands on him to leave his wife. She had entered the relationship knowing that he would never break up his marriage. In the heady days of their blossoming love, it had been enough just to be with him when he had the time to spare. She worshipped the ground he walked on, but as she grew older she wanted something more lasting than an affair, which, in the end, would have no meaning in the grand scheme of things. With a start she saw Derek appear on the television screen and jumped up from her chair to turn the volume up once again. She could not bear to miss a moment of the programme.
“I have pleasure in introducing the celebrated tenor, Derek Bailey in our series Musical Memories, Michael Broadstairs was saying.
“Hello, Michael,” Derek replied, “How very kind of you to invite me on to your programme tonight. It has been such ages since last we met…”
She heard his first few words in that beautifully modulated voice she knew so intimately. She reflected on the five years she had spent with him, and marvelled, with just a tinge of bitterness, at how much futile joy she had crammed into her life in that time.
The three women of the past and present who had shared various parts of Derek Bailey’s life and moulded in different ways, felt quickening heartbeats at the sound of his voice which had altered little with the passing years. His recording of Questa e Quella from Rigoletto in English was playing in the background:
“Though with one girl I was happy this morning,
Yet tomorrow, yet tomorrow, another I’ll find.”
Did you enjoy this taster? Read more about the book at:
Extract from the third section of my novel, I CAN'T FORGET YOU available at: MY LULU BOOKSTORE
For Jane Walters, her love affair with Derek Bailey had started in 1965 albeit only in her own mind. At the time she was a slightly plump, introverted teenager with earnest blue eyes. She regarded the world anxiously from behind the lenses of her gold-rimmed National Health spectacles. Her thick dark hair was of an indeterminate length. She thought it might improve her appearance if she grew it but it had been straggling damply in rats’ tails round her neck for ages without growing beyond that stage when it could be considered long.
Jane was an only child and she lived with her elderly parents in a pleasant detached house in Watford Road, Chiswell Green. Every day she caught the bus to her grammar school in St Albans where she was studying conscientiously for A levels in English Literature, History and Music. She played compulsory school sports with awkwardness and reluctance and was considered by her peers as a good sort, but rather ham-handed.
Her musical talent was the only thing to distinguish her from dozens of other girls like her: plain girls, whose legs were not shapely enough for mini-skirts, who would never play an active part in the decadent, swinging sixties, and who did not have life-size posters of the Beatles adorning their bedroom walls. But when Jane played the piano, her awkward, serious air vanished and her usually diffident manner became authoritative and secure. She also had a pleasant singing voice and often sang solos in the school choir. Her fellow scholars excused her awkward manner with, “What can you expect of old Jane? She’s not the typical dolly bird by any means - but she’s musical... no, not the guitar – the piano. Haven’t you heard her play? She’s brilliant.”
Her extensive record collection was her contact with the world outside the restricted environment of school and home. She kept her precious records in her bedroom at the top of the house where they could be played on her portable gramophone without disturbing her parents. She had all the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, which she loved and could sing by heart, the conservative operatic repertoire, and piano concertos and sonatas, many by her favourite pianist, Clifford Curzon.
While other sixteen year-olds went dancing with their boyfriends on a Saturday night, she practised the piano or sat in her room listening to her records. She had never had a boy friend, but sometimes she had daydreams about the mellifluous singers at the D’Oyly Carte or Kings Opera companies. Her parents had always taken her to hear these companies when they were performing in London. Her favourite daydream at the time concerned spending an idyllic evening with the well-spoken, restrained young tenor lead at the D’Oyly Carte.
“Oh, Jane, have the seen the Advertiser yet?” her mother asked one afternoon while Jane was eating a quick sandwich before rushing off to her piano lesson. “You’ll never guess who’s going to adjudicate at the festival this year!”
“Who, Mum?” Jane was staring at her hands and wondering how on earth she was going to manage to get the ink marks out of them before she went to her piano lesson with Mrs Barnett. She had washed them before sitting down in the kitchen for her snack, but this had not helped to get rid of the ink marks.
“Why, Derek Bailey, dear. I know he’s one of your favourites. Is he D’Oyly Carte or Kings?”
“Kings, Mum. You should remember. I just love his voice, but I don’t think he’s with the company full-time anymore. Imagine me playing for him. I shall be petrified – and goodness – I have to sing that solo in the choir too. I can’t sing in front of him. He’s so good.”
Her face reddened at the thought of it and she could feel the familiar hot rash spreading from her neck down to her full breasts, a sure sign that she was particularly excited.
“Nonsense, Jane. You’ll be marvellous as usual,” her mother replied with all the complacence of a non-musician who assumed her brilliant daughter could do no wrong.
“I’ll have to go now, Mum. Mrs Barnett is expecting me for my lesson at five. I don’t want to be late.”
She picked up her music-case and fled from the house, forgetting about the state of her inky hands. The music festival was to be held in three weeks’ time. She wished she looked a bit less stodgy if she had to play for Derek Bailey, although she knew that he was hardly likely to notice her amidst all the other contestants anyway. She had played at enough festivals to realise that it must be an awful bore for the distinguished adjudicators to listen to set pieces played over and over again by people who, for the most part, displayed no outstanding musical talent.
The festival was held during the Easter holidays and Jane spent most of her spare time at the musical sections of the festival, listening to Derek Bailey’s criticisms about the various entrants. She even managed to sit through a section where thirty aspiring sopranos of varying vocal quality had sung a ballad entitled Think on me. It was almost too much for Jane to bear, but it certainly gave her plenty of time to study Derek Bailey at close quarters.
The picture he presented was not very different from the one Elspeth had seen thirty years earlier. His basic dark good looks remained. His hair, as thick as ever, was tinged with grey, and lines of sorrow, happiness, and age had engrained his face with character. He had kept his upright figure and although it had broadened somewhat over the years, he had not allowed it to run to fat. His manner was confident and charming. Jane had admired him for four or five years and as she sat watching him at close quarters, she was mesmerised. She smiled to herself when she realised that her chosen idol was far more accessible than those of her friends. When would they ever have the chance of sitting quietly six feet away from John Lennon, concentrating on him, without being disturbed by hoards of other girls, some so hysterical that they didn’t notice they had wet their knickers, but continued screaming and shoving everyone else out of their way to get closer to their idol?
By the time she was due to play for Derek Bailey herself, she felt as though she knew him personally. She was playing in the recital section for pianists aged 15 to 19. She had chosen Bach’s prelude and fugue in C minor, no 2, Beethoven’s Sonata Op 90, Schumann’s Fantasiestück, Aufschwang, and Ravel’s Sonatina. Only four other pianists had entered this section and, as it was one of the highlights of the festival, the competition took place in the evening.
She sat with the other competitors, two girls and a boy whom she had met at previous festivals. She was to play last and knew she would have worked herself into a dreadful state of nerves by the time she was due to play. She was wearing a fussy, pink linen dress with flowers forming panels down the front. In contrast, Carla Johnson was wearing a black mini-dress, her hair cut short and straight with a Mary Quant style fringe. Her eye makeup, with its painted-on lower eye lashes and heavy eye liner must have taken her hours to apply.
John Barker played first. He had a good technique, but he set his tempo too fast so that the music sometimes lacked clarity. His fortes were a shade too loud and he sometimes missed out a note in the piano sections because of the heavy action of the sub-standard piano in the bleak school hall where the festival was held. Jane thought Carla Johnson’s recital was excellent. Despite her dolly-bird image, she had certainly improved greatly since Jane last heard her, pointing to some intensive practice. The girl who played before Jane was not up to the standard of the others. Jane decided that Carla would win the competition.
At last Jane was seated at the piano waiting to play. After a few moments Derek Bailey gave a nod. She paused for a moment, setting the tempo of the C minor prelude in her mind. If she started too fast she would never manage the passage in doppio tempo towards the end. She began to play. At first she was vaguely aware of her parents and her excellent teacher, Mrs Barnett, all seated anxiously in the third row, but once her concentration was complete only the music mattered. Before she knew where she was she had finished the elusive final movement of the Ravel and the audience was applauding encouragingly. She returned to her seat.
John Barker smiled at her and Carla said, “That was really super, Jane,” although Jane knew she didn’t really mean the compliment sincerely.
The audience and competitors sat in uneasy silence for five minutes while Derek Bailey completed his notes. He rose from the adjudicator’s table and faced them. He discussed each pianist in turn, highlighting their strong points and offering mild criticism of their weaker ones. Even the girl who played before Jane received her criticism tempered with encouragement.
“Now I come to the last young lady,” and Jane felt her face glowing red and the mottled rash spreading to her bosom. “She has an excellent technique and the effect of her recital was pleasing in many ways. This was a performance which could have graced a professional concert hall but for one very serious problem. After hearing the Bach I was convinced that I had found the winner. This pianist is very young however and her performance of the Beethoven and Schumann, although technically excellent, was lacking in emotion. Certainly she observed the marks of expression but there was nothing of herself in the performance at all...”
At this point Jane could not listen any longer. It was taking all her will to keep herself from weeping. Carla squeezed her arm in easy sympathy and the boy pianist looked smug. With Jane eliminated in this way he might have the good luck to be the winner.
Derek was concluding his comments.
“I fear I have been rather harsh on Miss Walters but I made these observations because I am convinced that she is an unusually gifted musician. I guarantee that in five years time when she knows more of life she will be a valuable asset to the musical profession. I have pleasure in awarding her second place. First place goes to Miss Carla Thompson, and I place John Barker third.
There were murmurs and applause from the audience and all the competitors congratulated Carla who made a pretty picture as the silver cup was presented to her by Derek Bailey. She smiled coquettishly in response to his murmured remarks and the flashlight from the camera of the local press photographer popped as he snapped a pretty picture for the following week’s front page.
In contrast, Jane was solemn and still near to tears as she received the medal for second prize. The press photographer had not waited to take her photo.
Derek Bailey shook hands with her.
“I haven’t upset you, have I? You have a very real talent and I simply wanted to tell you how to develop it to its limits. You didn’t mind?”
Jane shook her head, blinking away the unshed tears and even managed a lopsided smile.
“You are planning to make music your profession?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m doing entrance exams at various colleges towards the end of January. I’m hoping to become an accompanist eventually.”
“Good luck, dear. I’m sure you’ll do very well. In the meantime – try to live a little, won’t you?”
She nodded and returned to her parents and Mrs Barnett, and promptly burst into tears, doing her best to control her heart-broken sobs.
“Don’t you worry, dear,” Mrs Barnett said. “You played jolly well and he did give you second prize after all, didn’t he? Do stop crying, Jane. Remember you still have to sing in the choir, and there’s your solo too. You won’t be able to sing properly if your sinuses are all blocked up.”
“I don’t want to sing. I just want to go home.”
Mrs Walters put her arm round her daughter, looking as though she was about to weep herself, but Mrs Barnett frowned and shook her head.
“Where’s your backbone girl? Get off to the cloakroom at once and tidy yourself up. You have to change into your uniform anyway for the choir.”
Jane left the hall, mopping her eyes as she went. She felt ashamed of her childish tears, imagining herself to be the laughing stock of the hall. She was surprised when some of the girls in the choir congratulated her on her good report. The choir sang three songs from their repertoire, including Rendezvous in which Jane sang the alto line of the solo duet in the middle of the song. The choir came first in the section and Derek Bailey remarked fleetingly that he was pleased to hear that Jane’s voice was almost as promising as her piano playing.
Far from his observations helping Jane to go out and live a little, they had the effect of making her even more introverted than ever. She put his records away and tried to forget as much as she could of what had been for her a humiliating evening. Luckily she was busy preparing for her A levels and for the entrance tests to the various colleges of music. She considered herself extremely fortunate to be offered places at two well-known music schools. She decided to accept a place at the London Conservatoire, since it offered a specialised accompanist’s course where she could work in close conjunction with singing and instrumental students. Singing would be her second subject at the Conservatoire.
If you liked these extracts see the book at:
If you liked these extracts see the book at:
I CAN'T FORGET YOU, a novel by JEAN COLLEN
Published as a print and an e-book.
Published as a print and an e-book.
Jean Collen Copyright 2010