Choral Society Page 3

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, girl, what are you crying for? Yes, we have established you cannot sing and you won’t be in the choir, but it’s not the end of the world. You can presumably play hockey, or join the cookery club or something. So off you go now.’

  And that had been that. No jacket with a red collar, no making that wonderful, all encompassing, magical sound with a band of friends. No belonging to the choir. At first she had tried to tell herself she didn’t want to be in the choir anyway with such a horrible teacher, but she knew that the music students would go through fire for him. If you were in the choir, you became one of his protected pets and he was nice to you; no one ever wanted to leave the choir.

  Now, forty years later, here she was in this little community hall, determined to overcome the legacy of Mr Randall.

  She pretended an interest in the pile of exercise mats and plastic steps for aerobics classes in one corner. Joanna used to enjoy step classes at her gym and was good at the routines. She liked the competitive nature of them. But now, at fifty-five, her knees were getting a bit dodgy and aerobics made them worse. So she swam a lot and used the gym machines with care.

  She wandered over to the upright piano, rather battered but a Steinway, and looked through the music sheets lying on top of it: Singing for Beginners; Songs from the Musicals; Schubert; Mozart.

  A pile of sheet music for ‘Cry Me a River’ gave her the nasty thought that they might be expected to read music. She could not do that either. Maybe I should just quit now, she thought, I don’t have to do this. I could just grab my briefcase and go. Walk away.

  But suddenly there were footsteps and voices in the hall and four or five people came in and it was too late to leave. One man (tall, black, forty-five-ish, maybe Jamaican) was wheeling a bicycle.

  ‘Hi lady, you here for the singing?’ he said. He balanced the bike with one hand, and stretched the other towards Joanna with a big beamy smile. ‘I’m Nelson. I teach this class.’ He waved to include the others. ‘’Fraid I can’t introduce nobody to nobody. But when everyone’s here we’ll go round the room and get the formalities done. Meanwhile, welcome.’

  By the time Nelson had propped his bike against the wall, and cheerfully explained that he’d had his last two bikes stolen from the street outside, another ten or so people had drifted in and they got down to business.

  ‘We’ll start,’ Nelson said, ‘with something simple to break the ice.’

  It was a vaguely familiar gospel tune that Joanna realised anyone would get in five seconds, and she knew she could sing it if she was alone.

  But with the others there, it was the same old story. Her throat tightened almost at once and as the familiar ache overlaid the wheezy near-silence of her efforts, she felt a wash of frustration and disappointment.

  Everyone else, of course, sang beautifully. With Nelson’s encouragement they were belting their hearts out, and sounding mellow and rich.

  Joanna mimed along and watched the others. Some of them, especially the younger ones, were smiling at each other across the room as they sang, their faces softened and lit by the pleasure of it.

  It was preposterous at her age, she thought, but she could feel the prick of tears behind her eyes. Oh, why can’t I do that? What’s the matter with me? Why can’t I sing?

  She was standing next to Nelson, who would have to turn fully to verify that she was not singing. This was a relief to her. She did not want to be shown up, now she just wanted to get the class over with and go home.

  Chapter Four

  Rebecca had walked fast but the class had obviously started. She could hear singing through the open windows of the community hall. For a second she considered ducking out, but the singing sounded really good, some sort of gospel hymn she guessed. Besides, she could hear male voices in there. She listened intently, trying to count them. Half a dozen at least, she thought. Worth a little look.

  Her mind made up, Rebecca swung into the room with drummed-up confidence. She dropped her bag beside a row of others against the wall, hoping it wouldn’t get nicked.

  About twenty people were standing in a loose circle, feet apart, backs straight, heads up, concentrating. Some of them were clutching their midriffs, testing the depth of their breathing as they sang.

  Some looked up and returned her smile while still singing, others just kept going without acknowledging her.

  About a third were men, most of them a lot younger than her. The big black dude with a lot of hair was obviously Nelson, the teacher. He held his right arm bent, with his elbow sticking straight out from his shoulder and his hand flat. He lifted his arm up and down as the sound rose and fell.

  Still singing, he smiled at Rebecca, and with his free hand waved her to stand between him and a little bearded guy, who seemed reluctant to give up his place next to teacher.

  A distinctly classy woman (drop-dead suit, Issey Miyake probably, must have cost a fortune) on the other side of Nelson had to shift up to make room for her. She smiled her thanks, and looked round at the circle of singers.

  How do they know the words? she wondered: this is lesson one, and they don’t have any song-sheets. But Nelson gave her another big toothy smile and she found herself following him in a repeating round of the same few phrases:

  Wadin’ in the water

  Wadin’ in the water

  Wadin’ in the water

  God’s a gonna trouble the water

  They prolonged the last mellow notes, commanded by Nelson’s hand, then stopped cleanly as his arm flicked up in a decisive halt. They smiled at each other, pleased and surprised. Nice chap, thought Rebecca, dead friendly.

  ‘So,’ Nelson said, ‘we establish everyone can sing. So we won’t have no crap ’bout how you’s tone deaf or nuttin’. Everyone in the whole wide worl’ can sing. B’lieve me. They just need showin’ how.’

  He stepped back to the piano and banged the lowest note at the bass end repeatedly with one finger. ‘You hear that?’ he said. Then tinkled the high end with the other hand. ‘An’ that? Do they sound the same to you?’ He glared round the circle. ‘There’s a difference OK? Anyone can’t hear the difference?’ He hit low and high again. Low and high. His glare moved round his class, holding everyone’s gaze for a second, aggressive but smiling. ‘Anyone still want to tell me they tone deaf?’

  They grinned sheepishly at each other, mumbling ‘No’ or shaking their heads.

  ‘Good,’ said Nelson, ‘now we knows y’all can sing, we go round the room, introduce oursel’.’

  It was the usual mixed bag, thought Rebecca: four couples, one of them proudly lesbian, and five or six singles under forty. Among the over-fifties, she counted three single women besides herself: Joanna, the posh suit on the other side of Nelson, who turned out to be a businesswoman, a big black woman with a great voice, and an overweight food writer in a shapeless trouser suit and terrible haircut called Lucy, who could certainly sing. But of single men over forty there was, of course, a dearth: just the bearded ecologist who introduced himself as a bird-freak, and one old guy, very tall and completely bald, who declared himself a medical scientist.

  When it came to Rebecca, she described herself as a partner in an interior design business. Not exactly true, she thought. What I should have said is I’m the dogsbody in my ex-husband’s company, for which he pays me peanuts.

  After the introductions, they followed Nelson in stretching, breathing, humming and making unmusical animal sounds. And then they were back to ‘Wadin’ in the Water’, then ‘Motherless Child’ and finally ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’, sung sweetly and gently, hardly recognisable as the maudlin rugby anthem bawled by oafs on the terraces.

  Within an hour they were into three-part harmony, and Rebecca was singing with real pleasure, smiling at the others, happy and relaxed. Even her man-hunt had been temporarily forgotten.

  Chapter Five

  Lucy knew she’d been bullied into joining the choir by the combined forces of her daughter, son-in-law and gra
ndchildren.

  They’d won the battle one Sunday a few weeks ago. It had started with Grace in her kitchen.

  ‘Mum,’ Grace had said, ‘you can’t go on mouldering in the country for ever, eating junk and watching daytime telly.’

  Lucy had tried to ignore her daughter’s aggrieved tone. ‘Why not?’ she’d asked, sliding the Tesco pizza out of its box. ‘And this won’t be junk for long anyway. I’m fixing it.’ She cut off the wrapping and slid the pizza onto a baking tray. ‘And my mouldering, as you charmingly put it, doesn’t make any difference to you, does it?’

  ‘Yes, it—’

  ‘Darling, you should be pleased. You were always pleading for “real sausages, like we have at school;” “proper ice cream from Wall’s,” “white bread from the shop, like normal people …”’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mother, that was twenty years ago!’ Grace had flicked the tea towel off the rail and dried the saucers with a lot more energy than necessary. ‘And of course you staying at home day after day makes a difference to us. The children don’t see you enough for a start.’ She’d faced Lucy and her voice had softened. ‘And we worry about you. Besides, Dad wouldn’t want you moping, would he?’

  Irritation had licked at Lucy. She knew Grace was motivated by genuine concern, but it felt like interference. Grace never gave up and, true to form, she persisted,

  ‘You don’t go walking with that group any more, and you’ve given up the choir. Why not just give that singing group off Ladbroke Grove a go? I think it sounds perfect, and you could stay the night with us, and the children could see something of their gran.’

  Lucy had shaken her head, feeling obstinate, even truculent. No, she thought. No, why should I?

  Grace, however, had not finished.

  ‘You’ve even stopped cooking, Mum. Tesco’s pizza for God’s sake! You used to be the kind of cook who bakes her own beans!’

  Suddenly Lucy had felt more defeated than defiant. All this family emotion was so tiring. It was bad enough feeling wretched herself; considering the feelings of her children seemed beyond her.

  What Grace had said was true, of course. At first she had tried to keep up the habits of her marriage. She’d gone to church. Gone walking with the Cotswold Wardens with whom she and David had hiked for years. But the empty pew beside her had been horrible, and the walkers’ sympathy had made David’s absence worse, not better.

  And she could not have borne going back to her old choral group to sing the music she and David had learned together, rehearsed together, performed together. Even a snatch of Fauré’s Requiem on the radio was enough to make her cry. Singing it would be impossible.

  As for cooking, what was the point? Cooking was about love and caring and togetherness. Cooking for one was a waste of time.

  She’d watched Grace stacking the mugs on the shelf, her back speaking heroic patience with an obstinate mother. She hasn’t a clue what I feel, Lucy had thought. She thinks I should just pull myself together.

  ‘Mum, for God’s sake, just give the choir a go. It’s perfect. Not quite St Matthew Passion I know, but you like gospel, don’t you? You used to sing it to us all the time.’

  Lucy had closed her eyes for a second before responding.

  ‘Grace, could we give it a rest, do you think? I’m trying to cook lunch, and you are being horribly persistent.’

  Lucy had known her voice sounded dead and unfeeling. Her daughter’s heavy sigh and resigned shake of the head as she resumed unloading the dishwasher had not surprised her. Grace’s clear belief in her own rightness, funny as a child, now grated. Two weeks before, she’d insisted Lucy go to the doctor, who told her she was depressed. Depression is caused by a chemical imbalance he’d said. Not your fault. Just take the tablets.

  Lucy had refused the tablets and rejected the diagnosis. She was unhappy, sure, but she had good reason to be. If your husband died and you were not unhappy, what kind of marriage would that have been? Certainly not one to spend half your life on. And wasn’t losing your job, one which gave you everything a good job should – challenge, opportunity, satisfaction, interest, status, interesting colleagues, money – a reason to be down in the mouth?

  She had then made an effort to stop swatting mental flies, and concentrated on adding slices of sun-dried tomatoes, chunks of mozzarella and a few squashy olives to the pizza. She poured a thin dribble of Italian olive oil over it and slid the tray into the oven.

  ‘Lunch in ten minutes’ she’d said briskly. Then, relenting, she’d touched Grace’s arm and said, ‘Don’t worry about me, darling. I’m not desperate. Just rather poor company at the moment.’

  Grace had gone in search of the children and Lucy had laid the table, thinking about their conversation. Maybe what she resented wasn’t Grace’s bossiness but the fact that she was not allowed, or at least not expected, to grieve. You had to do things. You had to ‘move on’. Horrible phrase. Resume everything you did before, accept all the invitations of kind friends. Lucy thought there was merit in the ancient tradition of wearing black and mourning, when people accepted that you didn’t feel up to much, certainly not up to singing.

  But Grace was right about the cooking. Why had she collapsed into convenience food, stopped doing what she’d loved doing all her life? Before David’s death a ready-made pizza, even with home improvements, was unheard of. Even after he died and she still had her column, she managed a real interest in the food she was writing about. But it was an academic interest, a conjured-up enthusiasm from remembered or imagined meals, markets, ingredients. It did not extend to her own shopping and cooking.

  Now the fridge was full of shameful things – shameful for a respected food-writer anyway. Ready-made meals from the farm-shop, bottled mayonnaise, chiller-cabinet soups, roast chicken from the rotisserie, salads in puffed-up bags, Marks and Spencer’s panna cotta.

  These things were for when the family came down. When she was on her own, which was most of the time, Lucy ate fingers of cheddar and a fresh pear, or maybe a banana. Or yoghurt straight from the pot. Occasionally she made a tomato and cheese sandwich, or poached eggs on toast. Sometimes she just ate chocolate.

  That same afternoon, when they’d been watching Johnny and Clare petting the donkey in the paddock, Archie had a go at her too. He’d put his arm round her shoulders (rather tentatively as though he knew the gesture was required but could not feel any real affection for his mother-in-law to go with it) and said, ‘Lucy, you know Grace is right. Why not join a London choir? Just for fun?’

  ‘I am not after fun. And it wouldn’t be fun.’

  ‘Really, Lucy, it’s not just about the choir. You could combine it with a night or two with us, and you could meet a friend for lunch, go to a gallery or something. Make something positive about not having to work. And Johnny and Clare would love it.’

  Lucy had not replied that she would rather be at home with her cat than any of this. She had protested that she still had to work: she’d lost her newspaper job but there was her column in HOT Restaurant and she had a cookbook well over her publisher’s deadline. Archie had let it drop.

  But when, over tea, her grandchildren, obviously put up to it by Grace, had added their pleas for her presence, Clare wheedling, Johnny tugging her hand and saying, ‘Go on, Gran. Give in’, she’d crumbled. She could not let the children suspect that she was uneager to spend time with them. Indeed, she was ashamed of her reluctance and worried by it. She used to so love their company, rather more than their parents’ in fact, but somehow they did not delight her as before.

  A week later Lucy was in the train, on her way to London. She pulled her eyes away from the Cotswold landscape sliding past the window and returned her thoughts to the matter in hand. She booted up her laptop and found her file: ‘Draft One. Peasant Soups’. To her irritation the font size had somehow gone back to the factory setting that twenty-year-old techies working in Microsoft might be able to see but she couldn’t, even with her glasses on. Why were computers so maddenin
gly disobedient? For the umpteenth time she reset the default to font size fourteen.

  Lucy worked steadily for an hour. When she got to the recipe for ribollita she paused, wondering if her preference for Italian sour-dough bread was born of snobbishness or because its toughness stopped it falling completely apart in the soup. And did it have to be cavalo nero, or could you use spinach or chard? Suddenly a wave of acute boredom engulfed her. Who gives a toss, she thought. I don’t, that’s for sure. She closed her laptop and rubbed her eyes, boredom transmuting into anxiety.

  This singing thing isn’t going to work, she thought. I don’t want to pay fifty pounds every week to come up to London on this inevitably late train, stay in Johnny’s bedroom with nowhere to put my things and the bathroom down the corridor, and, worst of all, a Thomas the Tank Engine duvet. I detest duvets. And all so I can sing in a group that Grace thinks will do me good. I don’t want anything that will do me good.

  She gazed out at sloping valleys, sun on stone, picture-book sheep with laughable lambs gambolling about, a spring scene to lift the heart. But Lucy’s heart remained unlifted.

  Her mind picked at her crossness with her daughter. Why had Grace turned out so controlling? She, Lucy, had never been strict with her. Neither had David. In fact, when Grace was little, she’d longed for her husband to be a bit more Victorian and a little less indulgent.

  Now Grace claimed her instincts for order were a reaction to her over-lax childhood. She thinks David and I should have made her go to church and tidy her bedroom. And that we should have said no to pierced ears, loud music and boys. It’s true we hardly ever said no. Except maybe to junk food.

  Lucy sighed, and closed her eyes. It must be Archie’s influence, she thought, he is such a middle-aged thirty-five-year-old. Daily Telegraph, pinstripes and umbrella, well-shined shoes. Even ironed cotton shirts at the weekend.

  With an effort, Lucy wrenched her mind out of complaint mode. She must stop this constant brooding. She sat up and smiled at the woman opposite, who reacted with a nervous half-smile and a swift return to her book.