ENSA .
She walked down the aisle and on to the stage, childlike from the back in her red frock, he admired once again her fantastic posture, her refusal to scuttle. That kind of poise was a statement in itself. Watch me , it seemed to say, I matter .
He’d heard her laughing earlier – a full-throated laugh at the comedian. If she was feeling overawed by this, she certainly wasn’t showing it.
She didn’t see him at all. She stood in the weak spotlight, smiling at the dim figures in the stalls, thinking, this is it, kid . The accompanist took her music without smiling. She cleared her throat, and thought briefly about Caradoc Jones, her old music teacher from home. He’d given her lots of advice about opening her throat, and relaxing, and squeezing her bum on the high notes – ‘I’ll train you so well,’ he’d told her, ‘you won’t have to worry about your diaphragm or your breath or whether you’ll be able to hold a high note, it will all be there.’ But what he’d talked about most, apart from developing technique, was being brave.
She’d gone to him first aged thirteen, pretty and shy, but keen on herself too, having easily won two of the talent competitions organised by the Riverside Youth Club. She’d warbled her way through ‘O For the Wings of a Dove’, thinking he’d be charmed as most people were.
And Caradoc, a famous opera singer before the booze got him, had not been in the slightest charmed. This fat, untidy man, with ash on his waistcoat, had listened for a bit and then asked:
‘Do you know what all bad singers have in common?’
When she said no, he’d slammed down the piano lid and stood up.
‘They do this . . .’ He’d made a strangled sound like a drowning kitten. ‘I want you to do this . . .’ He’d bared his ancient yellow teeth, his tongue had reared in his huge mouth, and he’d let out a roar so magnificent it had sprayed her and his checked waistcoat with spittle.
He’d glared at her ferociously. ‘For Christ’s sake, girl, have the courage to make a great big bloody mistake,’ and she heard her mother gasp: Swearing! Children! ‘Nothing good will ever happen,’ he said, ‘unless you do.’
Now the pianist rippled out the first soft chords to ‘God Bless the Child’. She went deep inside herself, blocking out the pale and exhausted faces of the ENSA officials and the bored-looking stenographer, and she sang. For a brief second she took in the vastness of the space around her, the ceiling painted in white and gold, where the bomb hadn’t got it, the rows and rows of empty seats, the magic and glory of this famous theatre, and then she got lost in the song.
When it was over, she looked out into the auditorium. She saw no movement at all, except for Arleta, who stuck her thumbs up and clapped.
Dom sat and listened too, confused and frightened. When he’d heard her first, or so he’d reasoned with himself many times, he’d been at the lowest ebb of his life, and she’d smelled so good, and seemed so young, and he was vulnerable.
But there she was again, with everything to lose – or so it felt to him – in the middle of the stage, making his heart race because she seemed so brave, so pure suddenly in the way she’d gathered herself up and flung herself metaphorically speaking into the void, where those bored-sounding fuckers in khaki sat with their clipboards and pencils.
And sitting on his own in the dark, he felt a tremendous emptiness. How foolishly schoolboyish of him to have written to her – she was everybody’s and nobody’s – but once again she’d called up a raw part of him, a part that normally he went to great lengths to try and hide. And although he’d always known he didn’t love Annabel, or not enough, he was shaken still by the loss of her, the blow to his pride as much as anything, the sense of everything being so changeable.
‘Anything else for us, Miss Tarcan?’ one of the men asked. She did ‘Smoke Gets in Your
She walked down the aisle and on to the stage, childlike from the back in her red frock, he admired once again her fantastic posture, her refusal to scuttle. That kind of poise was a statement in itself. Watch me , it seemed to say, I matter .
He’d heard her laughing earlier – a full-throated laugh at the comedian. If she was feeling overawed by this, she certainly wasn’t showing it.
She didn’t see him at all. She stood in the weak spotlight, smiling at the dim figures in the stalls, thinking, this is it, kid . The accompanist took her music without smiling. She cleared her throat, and thought briefly about Caradoc Jones, her old music teacher from home. He’d given her lots of advice about opening her throat, and relaxing, and squeezing her bum on the high notes – ‘I’ll train you so well,’ he’d told her, ‘you won’t have to worry about your diaphragm or your breath or whether you’ll be able to hold a high note, it will all be there.’ But what he’d talked about most, apart from developing technique, was being brave.
She’d gone to him first aged thirteen, pretty and shy, but keen on herself too, having easily won two of the talent competitions organised by the Riverside Youth Club. She’d warbled her way through ‘O For the Wings of a Dove’, thinking he’d be charmed as most people were.
And Caradoc, a famous opera singer before the booze got him, had not been in the slightest charmed. This fat, untidy man, with ash on his waistcoat, had listened for a bit and then asked:
‘Do you know what all bad singers have in common?’
When she said no, he’d slammed down the piano lid and stood up.
‘They do this . . .’ He’d made a strangled sound like a drowning kitten. ‘I want you to do this . . .’ He’d bared his ancient yellow teeth, his tongue had reared in his huge mouth, and he’d let out a roar so magnificent it had sprayed her and his checked waistcoat with spittle.
He’d glared at her ferociously. ‘For Christ’s sake, girl, have the courage to make a great big bloody mistake,’ and she heard her mother gasp: Swearing! Children! ‘Nothing good will ever happen,’ he said, ‘unless you do.’
Now the pianist rippled out the first soft chords to ‘God Bless the Child’. She went deep inside herself, blocking out the pale and exhausted faces of the ENSA officials and the bored-looking stenographer, and she sang. For a brief second she took in the vastness of the space around her, the ceiling painted in white and gold, where the bomb hadn’t got it, the rows and rows of empty seats, the magic and glory of this famous theatre, and then she got lost in the song.
When it was over, she looked out into the auditorium. She saw no movement at all, except for Arleta, who stuck her thumbs up and clapped.
Dom sat and listened too, confused and frightened. When he’d heard her first, or so he’d reasoned with himself many times, he’d been at the lowest ebb of his life, and she’d smelled so good, and seemed so young, and he was vulnerable.
But there she was again, with everything to lose – or so it felt to him – in the middle of the stage, making his heart race because she seemed so brave, so pure suddenly in the way she’d gathered herself up and flung herself metaphorically speaking into the void, where those bored-sounding fuckers in khaki sat with their clipboards and pencils.
And sitting on his own in the dark, he felt a tremendous emptiness. How foolishly schoolboyish of him to have written to her – she was everybody’s and nobody’s – but once again she’d called up a raw part of him, a part that normally he went to great lengths to try and hide. And although he’d always known he didn’t love Annabel, or not enough, he was shaken still by the loss of her, the blow to his pride as much as anything, the sense of everything being so changeable.
‘Anything else for us, Miss Tarcan?’ one of the men asked. She did ‘Smoke Gets in Your
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