The Cleverness Of Ladies Part 3

After the boy had stayed for three months, the Captain said to him that it was time to consider moving on. The boy held the Captain's gaze for a few moments, then looked away, in the direction of the hills. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'Not just yet. I'm helping that cricket team to improve. I'd like to stay longer. I take it that's all right with you.'

It was not a question, it was a statement. The Captain opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he saw the boy staring at him. He turned away in silence.

Some days later, the judge's wife gave a party. The boy arrived late; n.o.body was sure if he had been invited. There was whisky available, and many of the guests drank more than was wise. At one point in the evening, the boy was seen talking to the cattle-trader's widow. The boy said something and then leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She recoiled sharply and then although few people saw this she slapped the boy across the face and walked away. The Captain did not witness this incident; nor did the judge's wife. The judge saw it, though, looking over the top of his whisky gla.s.s. He frowned and turned away, staring up at the veranda ceiling, as he often did when they played bridge out there because of the heat.

The cattle-trader's widow did not speak to the Captain about what had happened at the party. But she was worried; she was very fond of the Captain's company, and she would be devastated if there were any scandal and the Captain were obliged to go away. It would be the end of her world, she thought. No more bridge. No more dinner parties. It would be the end of everything.

The judge's wife spoke directly. 'There's something going on,' she said. 'That boy is blackmailing the Captain. It's pretty obvious, wouldn't you say?'

'We need to get rid of him,' said the cattle-trader's widow.

The judge's wife, who had been looking out of the window at her beds of Namaqualand daisies, turned round sharply. 'But he's refused to go,' she said.

6.

They all played bridge the following Thursday. The Captain arrived late they always started at seven-thirty, after dinner, and he did not arrive until a quarter to eight. They saw the lights of his car sweep across the wall as he swung round the curve of the drive.

'That'll be the Captain,' said the judge's wife. 'He's normally so punctual.'

The bridge game started. The Captain and the cattle-trader's widow held all the strong cards, it seemed, but the Captain was quiet.

The judge's wife asked after the boy. Was he still teaching cricket at the school? 'No,' said the Captain. 'He's gone.'

The judge looked up from his cards. 'Probably about time,' he muttered. 'How long had he been staying with you?'

The judge's wife glanced at the cattle-trader's widow, who was counting points in her hand. The judge's wife had noticed that the other woman had not been surprised that the Captain was late. Had she known?

'One heart,' said the cattle-trader's widow.

7.

Over the next few days, the judge's wife found it difficult to think about anything other than the Captain's revelation that the boy had gone. It was to be expected that he would go eventually but she had not imagined that it would be easy for the Captain to get rid of him at this stage. She had asked the Captain about him at bridge, but she had not got much of a reply. Yes, he had gone, up to Lusaka. No, he had no idea what he was going to do up there. He had an uncle there, he thought, but he was not sure.

She raised the matter with the cattle-trader's widow, but she seemed unwilling to talk about it, and pointedly changed the subject. Then, at bridge one evening, the Captain suddenly produced a letter that he said had come from the boy. He fished it out of his pocket and read a few lines. The boy sent his regards to all of them.

The judge's wife noticed the stamp, and saw, she thought, that it had been posted in Lusaka. But she could not be sure.

'I'm relieved that he seems to be so happy,' she said. The Captain nodded, and put the letter back in his pocket. 60 The next day, she was driving past the Captain's house and called in on impulse. He offered her tea, which they drank on the veranda.

'The cricket team must miss him,' said the judge's wife. 'It is a bit odd that he should leave before their important match. I thought it was very strange, didn't you?'

The Captain lifted his teacup. 'At that age, you do that sort of thing,' he said. 'At least, I did.'

'But it seems so odd,' she said. 'Going off like that. Was everything all right between you and him? Sometimes I felt that, well, it was almost as if he was calling the shots.'

The Captain did not answer.

8.

The judge telephoned the Captain the following day and asked him to come round to the house. He was distraught, and the Captain went straight away.

'My wife has gone,' said the judge. 'She's left me.'

'But ...' said the Captain. 61 'She left a letter,' said the judge, picking up an envelope and taking out a single sheet of paper. 'Look, here it is. She tells me that she's had enough of living here, and needs to start a new life. She asks me not to try to contact her.'

'Just like my wife,' said the Captain. 'I'm so sorry. It happened to me, too.'

The judge was staring at the Captain. 'It's very strange, though,' he said. 'This is a typed letter. My wife never typed. She couldn't.'

The Captain looked down at the floor, and then out of the window, past the trees on the judge's lawn, and the beds of Namaqualand daisies, to the mountains beyond. They were blue, impossibly blue, like islands in the sea.

Music Helps

1.

La lived in a small town near the Suffolk coast. It was not Aldeburgh, but it was close enough, a town which had had a market, once, but which now had none of the bustle a market town has. It had an old church, built in Norman times, a thousand years or so ago, and several other beautiful buildings, including an old wool house which attracted visitors. There were farms nearby, some of which were rich ones, some of which barely scratched a living.

La came there in 1938, and started an orchestra. She was at that time in her mid-thirties, a tall, not unattractive woman, with a careful, measured way of talking. She had married young, barely into her twenties, and then had been widowed when she was thirty-two. Her husband had left her well provided for, but nothing could make up for her grief. I loved him so much, so much, she thought. I can never love another man; no man will ever be his equal. None.

She bought a house outside the town, about half a mile down one of those quiet roads that wind through the Suffolk countryside. It was a large old house, with walls of wattle and daub, oak-beamed, and painted on the outside in that extraordinary soft pink colour that one sees in parts of the Suffolk countryside. It had large gardens, five acres or more, with lawns and a rather overgrown pond. Sheep had ruined part of the garden before she bought it, but she repaired the fence and kept them out. The sheep looked in, with grumpy expressions on their faces.

La started her orchestra after a friend suggested that they invite an orchestra from London to entertain them with a concert. La was feeling cross with London, because another friend had made a patronising remark about people who live in the countryside.

'No need to invite anybody from London here,' she sniffed. 'We're perfectly able to form our own orchestra.'

'Are we?' said one of her friends. She sounded doubtful.

'Of course we are!' snapped La, now quite convinced that this was what should be done.

'There's plenty of talent here. An abundance.' She waved her hand airily in the direction of the window.

Her friend looked outside. The lawns, over which the evening sun was setting, were touched with gold. There were two pigeons cooing somewhere. But there did not seem to be any orchestral talent.

Undaunted, La proceeded to speak to the editor of the local paper. He listened to her seriously. These people, he thought, come up with some very odd suggestions, but this was surely one of the oddest. Discreetly, unseen by La, he scribbled on his pad: La's Orchestra.

2.

At least the editor of the paper had the grace to admit that he had been wrong. It turned out that not only was there a great deal of musical talent in the area, but it was talent of a reasonably high level. A number of retired players from great London orchestras offered their services, and many others, some coming from as far away as Cambridge, wanted to play. It was, it seemed, a thin time in the orchestral world, and the possibility of the occasional booking in return for dinner at La's house and a rail ticket to and from the concert was enough for many musicians. In the manner of a skilled manipulator, La knew how to persuade and encourage, and people found themselves committed to a far greater extent than they had bargained for at the outset.

Most of the players were not professionals, though they were competent amateurs. There were two, indeed, who had spent time studying music at academies, and some who could have done so, had life worked out rather differently for them. Then there was a handful of what were known as the weaker brethren. They, like those of a church congregation who were more likely to falter, were generously watched over by their more talented colleagues. Difficult pa.s.sages of music were explained, tactfully, and, sometimes, whispered help was given: 'I'll do it. Just follow if you can.'

In general, though, this was not necessary, and the orchestra's performances were, by any standards, good and solid. On the orchestra's first anniversary, in May 1939, it gave a special concert. La basked in the glory modestly, of course inviting a great number of friends and giving a series of parties to mark the event. n.o.body minded her celebrating this triumph in the least.

But it was 1939. People asked: 'What about the orchestra, La? With things as they are ... ?'

'We'll carry on,' she said. 'Isn't that what we're meant to do?'

So the orchestra continued during the war, and welcomed the talents of various musicians from the armed forces who were stationed in the area. An American airman livened up the percussion section for a brief and glorious period, and an accomplished Canadian violinist added real distinction to the string section for almost six months.

The orchestra performed concerts for the forces. 'It's not much of a contribution,' said La to a friend. 'But music makes a bit of a difference, I suppose.'

'But of course it does,' came the reply. 'It all helps.'

She pondered these words. It all helps. She had seen a man moved to tears of emotion at one of the concerts when they had played a piece by the composer Dvorak, and she knew that, yes, it was true. Music helped.

It was round about this time that La's Orchestra had its finest hour. A conference was being held in a country house. It was all very secret and the members of the orchestra, invited to play one evening to entertain those at this meeting, were taken to the venue without any idea of where it was. When they saw who was in the audience, they knew why.

The VIP was tired, and fell asleep briefly during one of the pieces. But afterwards, when he came to congratulate the conductor and the leader, he smiled and a.s.sured them that their presence had been important.

'Music helps,' he said. Then he produced a cigar from his pocket, waved to the players, and was gone.

3.

La herself could not play an instrument. In the course of her somewhat chaotic education she had learned the basics of music, though, and her father had been good at the cello. He had encouraged her to take up the flute. But for a variety of reasons, this had never happened. The idea that she might one day play had remained unexplored. 'The flute,' she said, 'is the instrument I do not play.'

Her main contribution to the orchestra apart from acting as secretary, financial backer, venue organiser and tea-maker was to copy out difficult-to-find parts, by hand. La somehow managed to borrow musical scores, but parts would often be missing and she would go to Cambridge, consult a library and copy the missing part by hand. She would spend hours doing this, her fingers becoming stained with black ink. But her copying of the notes was clear, and people liked to have La's parts to play from, with each page signed at the bottom: La.

She had the time to do this because she had no job. Of course, during the war years there was plenty for her to do. She drove an ambulance four days a week, releasing its usual driver for other duties, and she also did s.h.i.+fts at a small care centre where wounded servicemen were looked after. But for the rest, it was the orchestra that took up her time and energy.

Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, La would wake up and worry about her orchestra. What would happen if the conductor could no longer conduct? He was getting on a bit, and he had complained about his heart. Conducting was sometimes vigorous work, and she imagined that it might put a strain on the heart. Perhaps this should govern their choice of music in future? Perhaps she should look at musical scores in advance and determine whether they were going to be a little bit too physically demanding?

What would happen if the unthinkable occurred? What if the country were to fall to the n.a.z.is? What would happen to her orchestra? Would everyone be sent away, or just be forbidden to play? What if music were to be banned, to be declared some sort of threat? Her orchestra then might have to go underground, playing secretly in people's houses, racing through the repertoire in hiding with somebody standing guard outside, ready to give warning.

Such thoughts ridiculous thoughts made La turn on the light. Light dispelled such fantasies, such defeatism; light put them in their place. The country would not be overrun; Britain would hold out. It was impossible to imagine defeat, not because one could not imagine what it would be like, but because it was just such an unlikely outcome.

Everyone thought that, she told herself. She knew n.o.body who thought otherwise. Indeed, one member of the orchestra, a recently recruited Polish exile, had said to her, 'We will win this, you know. We will.' He had looked at her as if challenging her to disagree with what he had said. But she did not, of course, and the Pole had then said: 'You know why we will win? It is because music is on our side.'

4.

This Polish exile, who was called Feliks, worked on a farm. He had been wounded, and limped as a result. This made him unfit for the army but fit enough to drive a tractor. He lived in a cottage at the edge of a large arable farm. The farm was owned by an elderly man who was something of a recluse. He saw Feliks once a day, gave him his orders and then disappeared back into the farmhouse.

Like La, Feliks was in his thirties, a quiet man who had lost confidence after his injury. He never spoke about what had happened to him, and La knew better than to pry. There were so many people around to whom terrible things had happened that it was better to wait until they chose to tell you, if they chose.

He had come to one of the concerts, and that was how she had met and recruited him. The concert had been in the hall of a school, and at the interval they had served tea from one of the school's large urns. La had been serving, along with two other women who helped her with these tasks. She had not noticed Feliks in the queue, but suddenly he was before her, holding out the tuppence that they charged for the tea and a small, rather tasteless biscuit.

She had poured his tea and pa.s.sed it to him. He had taken the cup and it was then that she noticed his hand was shaking. The cup rattled in its saucer.

He saw her looking at his hand, and the shaking stopped. He moved away, but when La had finished serving tea she looked up and saw him standing by himself at the end of the room.

She folded up her ap.r.o.n and went up to him. 'I haven't seen you at our concerts before,' she said.

'No,' he said. 'This is the first time.'

He smiled at her as he spoke, and she smiled back. He was a foreigner, obviously, although his English was quite good. She asked him where he was from. He told her.

She thought: I would have said he was French, from the way he looks, but no, that would have been a mistake. The French were more self-confident than this man; he was shy and retiring in his manner.

'You obviously enjoy music,' she said.

He reached to put his cup down on a table at the side of the room. Somebody walked past him and b.u.mped him slightly, and he blushed, as if he was embarra.s.sed at being in the way.

'I do. Yes, I do.'