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Authors: Angela Dracup
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the musical sphere, but he rather looked forward to
dealing with those. And what could be more tantalizing and exciting than
playing God in the conception, gestation and eventual birth of a coruscating
new talent?
‘Saul Xavier seems to have taken
it into his head to be my Svengali,’ Tara told her mother drily when she
returned home from work that evening.
As Rachel listened to the full
story a spark of hope leapt up inside her at the prospect of the re-awakening
of Tara’s buried musical aspirations. Concern about Tara had almost stifled the
grief of Richard’s death. Rachel saw that her daughter was desperately adrift,
stumbling around in some private wilderness, searching wildly for the odd
signpost to re-direct her onto a path of purpose.
Rachel wondered where she and
Richard had gone wrong with this bright, iron-willed offspring who had been so
full of shining hope and promise as a child. She supposed that for a time they
had been preoccupied with the intensity of their sorrow after Freddie’s death
and maybe that had had some harmful effect on the young Tara. But they had
tried really hard not to let their private torment affect their relationship
with their remaining child. Indeed when Tara had become their only child she
had been even more precious than before.
And Richard had always been so
encouraging about her musical potential: her singing and her violin playing. He
had spent hours tutoring her himself in addition to the expert teaching she had
received at one of the country’s leading music school for which she had gained
a scholarship at the age of eight. He had even composed short pieces for her to
play in her practice sessions so as to provide extra interest.
And after all that, at seventeen,
when her talent seemed on the point of breaking from the bud into full blossom,
she had suddenly turned her back on it. She had gone wild sampling all the
temptations of the stereotypical teenage culture: booze, boys, all-night
parties. And pop music blasting from her radio, making the house throb with
sound, and Richard wince with horror.
Her violin lay untouched in its
case and her voice was directed into yelling at her parents rather than
developing musically.
Scraping into London University
to do philosophy had been a last resort rather than a choice, affording no more
than temporary parental relief. Clearly that had never been right for her. And
now she had thrown that in as well, with no apparent plans to do anything else.
Her waitressing job had also gone – her boss did not take kindly to employees
taking time off, even for family bereavement.
Rachel supposed Tara would be
reduced to signing on for unemployment benefit. Her heart wept for her chid.
There seemed only Bruno at
present who represented some stability.
‘Aren’t you pleased Mum?’ Tara
demanded. ‘For me to be playing again?’
‘Of course I’m pleased.’
‘Daddy would have been, wouldn’t
he?’
Rachel sighed. ‘You must do this
for yourself, not for Daddy.’ She looked at Tara and saw the confusion and
conflict in her face. Anger too. There was this constant undercurrent of anger.
Rachel couldn’t understand it. Why?
Later in the evening as they
watched the late night news on TV, Tara said suddenly, ‘I think I was crazy to
agree to go to this master class. Do you really think I should?’
Her mother frowned. ‘Yes. Yes, I
think you should go. What’s to be lost?’
‘My self respect?’
‘Xavier’s faith in you?’ Rachel
wondered.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m surprised you’re admitting
to caring about that!’
‘So am I,’ Tara agreed with
feeling.
Monica Heilfrich held her master
classes in the pink and gold drawing room of her Belgravia flat. She maintained
that the intimate, home-like atmosphere helped her students to relax.
Tara was the last to arrive, her
bus having been delayed in the snarl of London’s traffic. She found two other
nervous and hopeful violinists present, a boy who looked
dealing with those. And what could be more tantalizing and exciting than
playing God in the conception, gestation and eventual birth of a coruscating
new talent?
‘Saul Xavier seems to have taken
it into his head to be my Svengali,’ Tara told her mother drily when she
returned home from work that evening.
As Rachel listened to the full
story a spark of hope leapt up inside her at the prospect of the re-awakening
of Tara’s buried musical aspirations. Concern about Tara had almost stifled the
grief of Richard’s death. Rachel saw that her daughter was desperately adrift,
stumbling around in some private wilderness, searching wildly for the odd
signpost to re-direct her onto a path of purpose.
Rachel wondered where she and
Richard had gone wrong with this bright, iron-willed offspring who had been so
full of shining hope and promise as a child. She supposed that for a time they
had been preoccupied with the intensity of their sorrow after Freddie’s death
and maybe that had had some harmful effect on the young Tara. But they had
tried really hard not to let their private torment affect their relationship
with their remaining child. Indeed when Tara had become their only child she
had been even more precious than before.
And Richard had always been so
encouraging about her musical potential: her singing and her violin playing. He
had spent hours tutoring her himself in addition to the expert teaching she had
received at one of the country’s leading music school for which she had gained
a scholarship at the age of eight. He had even composed short pieces for her to
play in her practice sessions so as to provide extra interest.
And after all that, at seventeen,
when her talent seemed on the point of breaking from the bud into full blossom,
she had suddenly turned her back on it. She had gone wild sampling all the
temptations of the stereotypical teenage culture: booze, boys, all-night
parties. And pop music blasting from her radio, making the house throb with
sound, and Richard wince with horror.
Her violin lay untouched in its
case and her voice was directed into yelling at her parents rather than
developing musically.
Scraping into London University
to do philosophy had been a last resort rather than a choice, affording no more
than temporary parental relief. Clearly that had never been right for her. And
now she had thrown that in as well, with no apparent plans to do anything else.
Her waitressing job had also gone – her boss did not take kindly to employees
taking time off, even for family bereavement.
Rachel supposed Tara would be
reduced to signing on for unemployment benefit. Her heart wept for her chid.
There seemed only Bruno at
present who represented some stability.
‘Aren’t you pleased Mum?’ Tara
demanded. ‘For me to be playing again?’
‘Of course I’m pleased.’
‘Daddy would have been, wouldn’t
he?’
Rachel sighed. ‘You must do this
for yourself, not for Daddy.’ She looked at Tara and saw the confusion and
conflict in her face. Anger too. There was this constant undercurrent of anger.
Rachel couldn’t understand it. Why?
Later in the evening as they
watched the late night news on TV, Tara said suddenly, ‘I think I was crazy to
agree to go to this master class. Do you really think I should?’
Her mother frowned. ‘Yes. Yes, I
think you should go. What’s to be lost?’
‘My self respect?’
‘Xavier’s faith in you?’ Rachel
wondered.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m surprised you’re admitting
to caring about that!’
‘So am I,’ Tara agreed with
feeling.
Monica Heilfrich held her master
classes in the pink and gold drawing room of her Belgravia flat. She maintained
that the intimate, home-like atmosphere helped her students to relax.
Tara was the last to arrive, her
bus having been delayed in the snarl of London’s traffic. She found two other
nervous and hopeful violinists present, a boy who looked
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