Read Online A Week in Paris by Rachel Hore - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Hore
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from the keys, wounded.
‘Start again,’ he said briskly, ‘and while you play, listen to the tune in the top line. See – here, and here – you go too quickly and do not allow it to sing. We will spend a little time on this, then I’ll find you some Mozart. Your left hand is not strong, but I have exercises for that.’ The hard work had begun.
The time passed quickly and before she knew it, it was one o’clock and the maid was knocking at the door to call her master to luncheon.
‘Very well,’ he said to Kitty, consulting a pocket diary. ‘Thursday at the same time. And in the meantime, practise, practise, practise.’
‘I wondered . . . was I all right?’
‘All right? No, of course you were not all right. That is why you have come – to learn. Whether you succeed or not, Mademoiselle, is down to you. What you are made of. We will see. We will see.’
He smiled in a kindly enough way, and with that she had to be content.
Chapter 6
April 1961
Paris
Lois had given Fay her Oyster White nail varnish for Paris, and Fay loved the way it gleamed on her fingers as she played her violin. It was Tuesday, the West London Philharmonic Orchestra’s first morning in the city, and they were rehearsing in an Art Deco concert hall, their base for the tour.
At lunchtime they were set free with a stern warning from their conductor, Colin, to be back by seven for the concert that evening. Fay laid her precious old violin carefully in its case, the wood still warm and vibrant from hours of playing. The practice had gone well; she was alive with the pleasure of the music, the soaring theme of Schubert’s ‘Unfinished’ Symphony resounding in her mind.
As she loosened the bow and wiped the violin strings, she was brought back to earth by a nasal voice saying, ‘What about you, Miss Knox?’ She looked up to see Frank Sowden, one of the older first violinists, his barrel chest thrust out importantly, as though compensating for his shortness. His sensuous lips, small bright eyes and greying goatish beard reminded her of a satyr. ‘Might we be graced with your company, young lady?’ She was used, now, to the pompous way in which he spoke. ‘A few of us are partaking of lunch at a restaurant on the Boulevard Haussmann.’ Perhaps he was being friendly, but it was disconcerting the way he didn’t quite meet her eye, his gaze instead sliding down her body.
‘It’s nice of you to ask,’ she replied, trying her best to look regretful, ‘but I’m going sightseeing. I hardly know Paris, you see, and I don’t want to waste a moment.’ This was half the truth. The other half was that she only had a little money, her fee as a stand-in and the allowance for daily expenses being very small, and she didn’t want to find herself in a situation where Frank insisted on paying for what was likely to be an expensive meal. He’d brushed against her on the stairs of the hotel the night before in a not-quite accidental way that made her wary of him.
‘Fair enough,’ Frank said bluntly and turned away.
Anyway, it’s not quite a lie
, Fay told herself as she stowed her instrument in one of the Green Room cupboards. Her still-surprising new reflection looked back at her from a wall mirror and she wrinkled her nose at it. She was only in Paris a short time, and planned to make the most of it. It was with a sense of freedom that she pushed open a door at the back of the theatre and found herself outside on a busy street.
She’d felt an excitement as soon as she arrived at the Gare du Nord late the previous afternoon, clutching her violin and a suitcase, while the others in the party were tired and tetchy from a choppy Channel crossing. So much was instantly familiar from her school trip five years before. Even in the Métro, the oil-and-rubber smell, the hot blasts of air from the tunnels, the squeal of brakes from the approaching train were somehow different from the London Underground, and peculiar to itself. She
‘Start again,’ he said briskly, ‘and while you play, listen to the tune in the top line. See – here, and here – you go too quickly and do not allow it to sing. We will spend a little time on this, then I’ll find you some Mozart. Your left hand is not strong, but I have exercises for that.’ The hard work had begun.
The time passed quickly and before she knew it, it was one o’clock and the maid was knocking at the door to call her master to luncheon.
‘Very well,’ he said to Kitty, consulting a pocket diary. ‘Thursday at the same time. And in the meantime, practise, practise, practise.’
‘I wondered . . . was I all right?’
‘All right? No, of course you were not all right. That is why you have come – to learn. Whether you succeed or not, Mademoiselle, is down to you. What you are made of. We will see. We will see.’
He smiled in a kindly enough way, and with that she had to be content.
Chapter 6
April 1961
Paris
Lois had given Fay her Oyster White nail varnish for Paris, and Fay loved the way it gleamed on her fingers as she played her violin. It was Tuesday, the West London Philharmonic Orchestra’s first morning in the city, and they were rehearsing in an Art Deco concert hall, their base for the tour.
At lunchtime they were set free with a stern warning from their conductor, Colin, to be back by seven for the concert that evening. Fay laid her precious old violin carefully in its case, the wood still warm and vibrant from hours of playing. The practice had gone well; she was alive with the pleasure of the music, the soaring theme of Schubert’s ‘Unfinished’ Symphony resounding in her mind.
As she loosened the bow and wiped the violin strings, she was brought back to earth by a nasal voice saying, ‘What about you, Miss Knox?’ She looked up to see Frank Sowden, one of the older first violinists, his barrel chest thrust out importantly, as though compensating for his shortness. His sensuous lips, small bright eyes and greying goatish beard reminded her of a satyr. ‘Might we be graced with your company, young lady?’ She was used, now, to the pompous way in which he spoke. ‘A few of us are partaking of lunch at a restaurant on the Boulevard Haussmann.’ Perhaps he was being friendly, but it was disconcerting the way he didn’t quite meet her eye, his gaze instead sliding down her body.
‘It’s nice of you to ask,’ she replied, trying her best to look regretful, ‘but I’m going sightseeing. I hardly know Paris, you see, and I don’t want to waste a moment.’ This was half the truth. The other half was that she only had a little money, her fee as a stand-in and the allowance for daily expenses being very small, and she didn’t want to find herself in a situation where Frank insisted on paying for what was likely to be an expensive meal. He’d brushed against her on the stairs of the hotel the night before in a not-quite accidental way that made her wary of him.
‘Fair enough,’ Frank said bluntly and turned away.
Anyway, it’s not quite a lie
, Fay told herself as she stowed her instrument in one of the Green Room cupboards. Her still-surprising new reflection looked back at her from a wall mirror and she wrinkled her nose at it. She was only in Paris a short time, and planned to make the most of it. It was with a sense of freedom that she pushed open a door at the back of the theatre and found herself outside on a busy street.
She’d felt an excitement as soon as she arrived at the Gare du Nord late the previous afternoon, clutching her violin and a suitcase, while the others in the party were tired and tetchy from a choppy Channel crossing. So much was instantly familiar from her school trip five years before. Even in the Métro, the oil-and-rubber smell, the hot blasts of air from the tunnels, the squeal of brakes from the approaching train were somehow different from the London Underground, and peculiar to itself. She
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