Second Fiddle: A Novel by Mary Wesley | eBook

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Second Fiddle

By Mary Wesley

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

CHAPTER 1

PART I Autumn

Claud Bannister sat beside his mother, enduring the concert. What right, he asked himself, had an unknown provincial quartet to perform three pieces of modern music for the first time? How was a discriminating sophisticate such as himself to know whether the music was good or bad? I need, he told himself with secret mortification, to read the opinion of the London critics before I dare judge. I am ignorant of music, if not tone deaf. I am neither discriminating nor sophisticated; I have come back to Mother after years of school, university and failed exams without money or qualifications, without even the courage to tell her what I intend to do with my life. What shall I say when she asks me? This music is incomprehensible, he thought, glancing covertly at his mother, yet she seems to understand it. What does she hear which I do not?

On the way to the concert Margaret Bannister had tried, unwisely she now realised, to jolly her son out of his gloomy mood and, failing, had called him 'a veritable bundle of resentment'—another of her misplaced remarks, she told herself, exasperated. To hell with it, she would enjoy the music, worry later.

These seats are appallingly uncomfortable, thought Claud, leaning back until the back of his seat creaked, tangibly annoying a bald man sitting in the row behind, a man who as they had come in to the concert hall had called out to his mother in jest, laughed appreciatively at some negligible joke she had made in return, had obviously admired her and been backed in his opinion by his wife who, grey-haired, stout and dowdy, had kindly included him, Claud, with, 'How nice to see you, Claud' (remembering his name while he remotely forgot hers). 'How seldom we see you, how glad you must be to spend some time with your clever, witty mother.'

Clever? Witty? What did all these grey old people know of cleverness or wit?

The quartet scraped to the end of the difficult piece. The audience clapped, the musicians stood and bowed.

'I might grow to like it when I have listened to it a few more times,' his mother said to the neighbour on her left. 'We finish, thank the Lord, with dear old Bach but they did their best, the brave young things.'

Claud scowled at the quartet, stringy and not particularly young, bracing themselves to have a bash at Bach while his mother sat back relaxed, anticipating pleasure. Grey, grey, they are all grey, grey-haired and largely dressed in grey. Claud's eyes roamed disapprovingly over the audience, seeing grey even when the heads were tinted black, auburn, even blond.

His eye was arrested by the sight of a woman three rows ahead, dressed in vivid green, a striped wrap in cyclamen and purple lit with blue slung round her shoulders. He could make out a white neck and above it a shock of dark springy hair; by leaning forward he could just make out a pointed nose and one dark eye. 'Who is that?' he whispered in his parent's ear. 'What's her name?'

'Hush, I will introduce you presently.' That his mother should know on the instant the only person in the audience who was of interest to him added to Claud's sulks. He leaned back in his uncomfortable seat, letting the Bach flow, feeding his resentment (what a bloody evening), disgustedly anticipating the soggy quiches and mediocre wines which would be distributed by benign ladies ('White wine or red? Or rosé? We have rosé, soft drinks too, of course.') while their husbands collected donations for the charity in aid of which the concert had been organised. Claud glared at his mother, who was smiling as though amused. What's funny about a boring provincial concert? It's probably in aid of some wretched cretins who would have been happier if allowed to die at birth.

He was presently introduced to the woman in green in the foyer among a babble of voices. She stood with a piece of quiche in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, talking with her mouth full to the conductor of the cacophony they had just listened to.

Claud heard her say, 'You know, I simply loathe modern music.' She sprayed crumbs from a full-lipped mouth, caught Claud's eye briefly, looked away, said, 'Hullo, Margaret,' leaned forward to kiss his mother's cheek—'I'm spewing crumbs, sorry'—and turned back to the conductor who, Claud remarked jealously, was a darkly attractive foreigner. Margaret Bannister turned, laughing, to speak to friends, leaving Claud to hover and snatch his chance when the guest of honour would be wrested away to be introduced to others. Knowing his mother, he guessed that he would, if lucky, have seven minutes to make his mark before she insisted on leaving. In the event he had ten.

'He's Rumanian,' said Claud's mother, as they moved away towards the car. 'He probably thinks Laura pronounces love, loathe. She will risk insulting people in public, it's the sort of joke which appeals to her.'

'Is she a tough cookie?'

'I suspect a heart of nougat. Would you like to drive?'

Claud guessed rightly that his parent was sick of his ill humour and ready to placate him. Had they reached the moment when he dared apprise her of his future plans? He got behind the steering wheel.

'You should have more confidence in your driving,' said his mother presently, as he braked violently at a crossroads.

'By which you mean I should have more confidence in myself?' Claud accelerated, hating the oblique criticism which, he now told himself, had driven his father into leaving home. His mother did not reply. This kind of silence had also precipitated his father's departure. We have not reached the right moment, he told himself.

Laura Thornby accepted another glass of wine but refused the quiche. She stood with her back to the wall, watching the concert crowd thin as they said their goodbyes, collected their wraps and went out into the night where the timbre of their voices sharpened in the freezing air. She thought, as the concert hall doors opened and shut, that she must have imagined the shiver of apprehension she had felt when Margaret Bannister introduced her son. She had felt the draught, she told herself, the night outside was freezing. Her shiver was nothing to do with Claud Bannister.

What a lot he had said in those short minutes. How impetuous to spill such a lapful of hope and ambition to a stranger. What a risk he had taken. And in a crowd! Anyone could have heard what he said. Sipping her wine Laura waited for the evening to end and as she waited she thought of Claud Bannister and was interested in her interest.

'Can we give you a lift?' Helen Peel, her arm through her husband's, slowed as they walked by.

'No, thank you. I have my car.'

'Someone said you brought the conductor down from London,' said Helen's husband Christopher.

'I did, but he is going back by train.'

'So you will be down for a few days?'

'Probably.'

'What's his name again, this conductor?' asked Christopher.

'Composer,' corrected Helen.

'Both.' Laura smiled at Helen.

'D'you mean he wrote that stuff, then conducted it?' Christopher towered over Laura. 'You do find yourself the most curious boyfriends.'

'So you did not like it.'

'Not much. Well, not at all. I'm not up to this modern stuff.'

'People said the same about Mozart. Come on, Christopher, we shall be—' Helen started to move.

'But what's his name? I've lost my programme and came without my glasses.'

'Clug,' said Laura.

'Clug?'

'To rhyme with plug.'

'Oh! Oh, all right darling, I'm coming.' Christopher Peel allowed himself to be led away. 'Is the fellow a Communist?' he asked over his shoulder.

'Probably.'

'—wouldn't be allowed out of Romania if he were not.'

Helen belonged to the class of English women who are taught to elocute clearly at an early age, thought Laura, listening to Helen's voice calling back, 'Goodnight,' as she and her husband went out into the cold.

Waiting for Clug to free himself of admirers Laura speculated idly on the gap there would be in her life with Clug returned to Romania. It had been an agreeable intermezzo, she thought, of just the right length, no time to get bored.

'Are you delivering Clug to British Rail?' The county artistic director came up now. 'If it's a nuisance I can easily—'

'No, no, Robert, everything's okay, his bags are in my car. It's no bother.'

The artistic director wondered whether he should say something about Clug stopping the night in Salisbury on the way down to see the sights. Perhaps he had better not since Laura appeared to have been with him—well, she had driven him down, hadn't she? Not that that necessarily meant—'I think the concert was a success,' he said, looking doubtfully at the thinning crowd, finding Laura slightly alarming.

'Of course it was. D'you think you could extract him from that hive of music lovers? He will miss his train otherwise.'

'Of course, of course. I don't think they are as much musicologists as—well-ah-he's a very attractive chap, isn't he? I'll do a bit of tactful disentanglement, shall I?'

Robert shot off to detach the conductor, who stood surrounded by an eager group of women and less eager men.

Laura waved in the direction of Clug, caught his eye, tapped her watch. Clug waved back and put his arm round rescuing Robert's shoulder.

After a while Clug leaned back in the car beside Laura. 'Ach, that's good. That boy look at you with calf eye, I see it.'

'Saw him,' said Laura, 'not it.' She turned up the heater. 'And it's calves' eyes, not calf. What have you been reading, Cluggie?'

'Woman's magazine. I try to learn all about loathing in capitalismus countries. So much freedom. Now in my country—'

'Loving, Clug, loving. I can't think why I bother.'

Clug chuckled. 'I go 'ome, so no problem, darling. Loathe, love, same thing.'

'Good job you are going.'

'So you no longer loathe me?' Clug queried.

'Might be verging on it.'

'I observe cruel tone of voice. No need to understand worts.'

'Crotchets and quavers.'

'Comment?'

'My French is as weak as your English.'

'You squash. Come to Bucharest,' Clug cajoled. 'A nice little visit. I fix visa.'

'No, thank you. I have told you. No fear.'

'Notting to fear.'

'Oh God,' Laura exclaimed irritably, 'do shut up just for once. No fear is slang, it means no thank you, nothing doing.'

'We do not do enough,' Clug laughed.

'Did not.'

'Okay, did not. So why not come now? Jost one last night?'

'No. Non. Nein. Niet.'

'Niet, I understand.'

'That's great. Now here's the station. Got your ticket? Got your bag?'

'You come?'

'No, I told you.'

'So—you—did.' If he wished, if he made the effort, a few words could be accentless. 'So a kiss, a final kiss?'

Laura pulled on the handbrake, leaned over and kissed his cheek. 'Goodbye, Cluggie.'

'Do not get hurted by that calf boy.'

'The boot might be on the other foot.'

'Yes, that also.' He was out of the car now, turning up his coat collar, yanking his suitcase from the boot of the car. 'In so situation two get hurt. You betray or he betray.'

Laura was out of the car, standing beside him. 'I can't see anything reaching that stage.' She was amused. 'You foresee a non-event.'

'You do not see much. Let me stay your place tonight or you come to London?'

'No, Cluggie, I told you. I have to see my family, go to the dentist—'

'I would like to see your home.'

'Lovers are apt to get bitten.'

'Is it so convention, your familia?'

'If you don't buck up, you will miss your train.'

The train, said the man at the barrier, was ten minutes late. Clug put his bag on a seat and, taking Laura's arm, started walking her up and down the platform. Constrained by good manners to see him safely onto the train, Laura sighed. She was looking forward to getting into bed by herself; she found this extra delay an imposition.

'Little Laura.' Clug squeezed Laura's arm against his ribs (they were of a height). "Ow I shall miss you, for me you represent all that is in this country er—er—'

'You have already forgotten what I represent.'

'No, no I 'ave not.' Clug's aitches froze as they left his lips. 'I shall even remember your great uncles, the most lovely uncles in Western Europe.'

'Ankles, Cluggie, ankles.'

'Votever. When I feel them wrapped round my vaiste I adore them, get most excite, ant your viggling toes, now this young calf will experience this extase.'

Catching the eye of a man supposedly reading the evening paper, Laura grinned. 'Work that one out, mate.' The stranger raised his newspaper, blotting himself away.

'So now this and that with that young so lucky fellow, to start so with a beautiful older woman is bonus,' cried Clug. 'And a so fonny woman also.'

'I'm not starting anything, Cluggie, I'm due for a little rest.'

'Rest! Nah! If he start it is better, but it vill be you, I think, no?'

'I think I hear your train,' said Laura, laughing.

'Do not forget me, little Laura. I vill remember as you are now forever. How we loathed!'

'We look like corpses under this fluorescent light—loved, Cluggie, loved. I still can't think why I bother.'

'In Venezia the street lights are pink.'

'And in Bucharest?'

'Like death also.'

'Here's your train. Where's your bag? Goodbye, goodbye.' Laura's spirits soared as the train arrived; she felt revivified and looked it, in spite of the fluorescent lighting. Clug climbed nimbly into the train.

'I am still working out how you wrapped your uncle's ankles round a waste—' The newspaper reader brushed past Laura and followed Clug onto the train as it began to move.

'Thanks!' Laughing, Laura blew a kiss towards the anonymous humorist. Leaning from the window Clug, taking the kiss to be for him, blew it back.

Walking back to her car Laura was grateful for the note of frivolity which had rescued her in the nick of time from incipient boredom. If I meet Margaret Bannister's son again I shall treat him in paltry fashion, she resolved. Arm's length should be the rule for a while, safety lay in being casual.

As the train gathered speed Martin Bengough, laying his newspaper aside, began to fuss, patting his pockets, opening his briefcase, rustling through its contents, then half standing up as though he might inadvertently have sat on the elusive object he was looking for. Not finding it, he sighed gustily and sat discontentedly in his seat to stare out of the window into the dark. Reflected in the glass he saw himself and his fellow occupants of the carriage as they relaxed and settled down for the journey to London.

A pair of adolescent boys had brought a travelling chess set; two girls travelling together wore Walkmen clamped to their heads. While one chewed gum and read a magazine, the other had brought out her knitting and clicked the needles frenetically. A white-haired old woman sat with her eyes shut, both hands holding her bag. By himself, in a corner seat halfway along the compartment, Clug was absorbed in a musical score.

Five or six burly young men of the type seen travelling to or from football matches barged suddenly through the compartment on their way back from the buffet car, bringing a waft of cold air mingling with the smell of stale tobacco; they each carried several cans of beer and sandwiches encased in plastic. As they lurched past Clug his fingers tightened on the score and he winced into himself, hunching his shoulders and drawing in legs which had been stretched out.

The train swung round a curve on the line; one of the young men lurched against Clug. 'Sorry, squire.' Clug looked up quickly, then down again, his fingers gripping the score. As the football fans clanged and bumped their way out of the compartment they were followed by the ticket collector, a tall Sikh in a blue turban. He took each ticket and examined it in silence before politely returning it to its owner. Taking Clug's ticket he said quietly: 'You are in the wrong compartment, sir, this is a first class ticket.'

'No matter,' said Clug. 'I move if the train crowds too heavy.' The ticket collector returned the ticket and moved on in the wake of the football fans.

Martin, feeling the train begin to slow, stood up, picked up his briefcase and stood by the sliding doors ready to leave the train at the junction which was the last stop before London. The junction platform was crowded with waiting passengers catching this last connection; some of them carried skis.

Martin leaned from the train window, his hand on the heavy brass handle. As the train drew to a halt, he stepped down into the crowd. 'Fifth row facing the engine, right-hand side, feels safer travelling second class,' he said, brushing past a man swinging himself onto the train.

'Oh, the bugger,' said the man without looking at Martin. 'I had looked forward to travelling in comfort.'

Martin grinned and started elbowing his way through the crowd to the exit. As he paused to give up his ticket, he looked back: the train was already moving and he could see his successor through the window standing near Clug, heaving his bag up onto the rack. Clug was studying his score.

Martin strolled out of the station to the car park where his car waited. He was very hungry. The quiche at the concert had been uneatable; he had swerved away from the wine. He looked forward to the meal he had ordered earlier in the day at a small country restaurant not yet recommended by Egon Ronay, run by the friend of an acquaintance who would be ready to oblige with a late meal.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Second Fiddle by Mary Wesley. Copyright © 1988 Mary Wesley. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Second Fiddle: A Novel

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Second Fiddle

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Second Fiddle: A Novel

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Second Fiddle

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