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Authors: Donald Greig
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her, to discuss the implications with someone who knew how important this was to him. Was she paying him back for the airport incident? Surely she shouldnât allow his barely sentient son to upstage this triumphant moment? Throwing him a rubber duck or a sponge would keep him occupied for the five minutes of Karenâs time Andrew felt he deserved.
The announcement for boarding broke the silence between them and reminded him that he needed to secure his seat to prevent a repeat of the cramped conditions of the previous flight.
âI shouldnât have called at bath time,â he said, hoping his bald admission counted as an apology. âIâll call you when I can. From France, but I donât know when that will be.â
âFine. That would be better. And try to make it when Iâve got some time to talk, rather than at meals or bath times, OK?â
As a request it was reasonable enough, but he resented the world-weary tone and, rather than thank his wife for the lift to the airport, he offered a curt farewell. âLove to John.â
He joined the line of people boarding the aircraft, most of them Brits with harsh accents. This being British Airways, the six-hour flight would provide his first of many authentic re-engagements with European exoticism. Momentarily now meant
for
a moment and not
in
a moment. A cigarette was a fag, the trunk of the car the boot, sidewalks would become pavements. His brief stopover at Londonâs Heathrow would provide scant opportunity to use any of these substitutions, yet the amateur philologist in him â a string to every medieval musicologistâs bow, he observed â thrilled to the mutability of language and entertained him as he stood in line. No, not in line. In a queue. And in another ten hoursâ time heâd be in France and it would all change again and
queue
would mean âtailâ.
âWelcome on board the British Airways flight, sir. Can I see your boarding pass, please?â
He registered the glottal on âAirwaysâ, the sibilant âtâ, so different to the softer dental âdâ to which he was accustomed, and the general harshness of the open
vowel sounds, the more so without the velvety, post-vocalic ârâ typical of Irish and American speakers.
âOver to the other side, then down to your right, sir.â
Directed away from the Club Class cabin, he recalled his reverie from the previous flight and, for once, felt none of the usual jealousy and bitterness towards the privileged few. Soon he would join them.
There was a spare seat between him and the young man in the window seat to whom he nodded a hello. He arranged his luggage in the overhead bin, stowed his bag at his feet and immediately withdrew his blue folder.
He began with the acid test: would the
discantus
and
tenor
parts fit together? If they didnât, he was back to square one. It was too easy: they fitted perfectly as heâd instinctively known they would. He heard the careful contrary motion between the flowing lines in perfect harmony. The second test was the canon within each part. The Latin instruction made immediate sense to him and, habitually paranoid as he was, he realised that it was fortuitously impenetrable to the average transatlantic tourist.
Canon ad breve.
It told the singers to sing the same phrase exactly one breve after the previous singer. He heard the parts setting off at fixed time intervals, like a staggered race. The long note values in the
bassus
made it easy to sing, but only professionals would be able to shape that line with the necessary grace to make it sound convincing. When all the parts joined in it would sound much more rich and complex than it looked here on the page. That was equally true for the
contratenor
part, which, in the manuscript, was provided no musical example of its own, only text:
Contratenor sequit bassus in diatesseron in canon ad breve
. It told the singer to sing the
The announcement for boarding broke the silence between them and reminded him that he needed to secure his seat to prevent a repeat of the cramped conditions of the previous flight.
âI shouldnât have called at bath time,â he said, hoping his bald admission counted as an apology. âIâll call you when I can. From France, but I donât know when that will be.â
âFine. That would be better. And try to make it when Iâve got some time to talk, rather than at meals or bath times, OK?â
As a request it was reasonable enough, but he resented the world-weary tone and, rather than thank his wife for the lift to the airport, he offered a curt farewell. âLove to John.â
He joined the line of people boarding the aircraft, most of them Brits with harsh accents. This being British Airways, the six-hour flight would provide his first of many authentic re-engagements with European exoticism. Momentarily now meant
for
a moment and not
in
a moment. A cigarette was a fag, the trunk of the car the boot, sidewalks would become pavements. His brief stopover at Londonâs Heathrow would provide scant opportunity to use any of these substitutions, yet the amateur philologist in him â a string to every medieval musicologistâs bow, he observed â thrilled to the mutability of language and entertained him as he stood in line. No, not in line. In a queue. And in another ten hoursâ time heâd be in France and it would all change again and
queue
would mean âtailâ.
âWelcome on board the British Airways flight, sir. Can I see your boarding pass, please?â
He registered the glottal on âAirwaysâ, the sibilant âtâ, so different to the softer dental âdâ to which he was accustomed, and the general harshness of the open
vowel sounds, the more so without the velvety, post-vocalic ârâ typical of Irish and American speakers.
âOver to the other side, then down to your right, sir.â
Directed away from the Club Class cabin, he recalled his reverie from the previous flight and, for once, felt none of the usual jealousy and bitterness towards the privileged few. Soon he would join them.
There was a spare seat between him and the young man in the window seat to whom he nodded a hello. He arranged his luggage in the overhead bin, stowed his bag at his feet and immediately withdrew his blue folder.
He began with the acid test: would the
discantus
and
tenor
parts fit together? If they didnât, he was back to square one. It was too easy: they fitted perfectly as heâd instinctively known they would. He heard the careful contrary motion between the flowing lines in perfect harmony. The second test was the canon within each part. The Latin instruction made immediate sense to him and, habitually paranoid as he was, he realised that it was fortuitously impenetrable to the average transatlantic tourist.
Canon ad breve.
It told the singers to sing the same phrase exactly one breve after the previous singer. He heard the parts setting off at fixed time intervals, like a staggered race. The long note values in the
bassus
made it easy to sing, but only professionals would be able to shape that line with the necessary grace to make it sound convincing. When all the parts joined in it would sound much more rich and complex than it looked here on the page. That was equally true for the
contratenor
part, which, in the manuscript, was provided no musical example of its own, only text:
Contratenor sequit bassus in diatesseron in canon ad breve
. It told the singer to sing the
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