On Wings of Song



  ON WINGS OF SONG

  A story by

  Peter D. Wilson

  Copyright Peter D. Wilson 2011

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  This story appeared in the author's collection "Pebbles from a Northern Shore" but is here republished separately for the benefit of readers who may prefer to have it by itself.

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  This story is a work of fiction, and any resemblance therein to persons, events or situations in past or present reality is coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Opening

  Opera

  Cynthia

  Watson

  Transatlantic

  *****

  About the author

  ON WINGS OF SONG

  It isn’t quite true that I can’t sing a note. I can, but never the right one, nor any remotely compatible with it. I was probably the only boy in the school’s history asked to withdraw from the house choir in the annual music competition into which everyone with any sort of voice would be dragooned. Age hasn’t improved matters, either, but then it rarely does. However, much more recently, the disability again turned out to my advantage.

  The occasion followed a suggestion from a bright spark in local radio that organising a music festival “would put the town on the map”, a task in which, as some pedant pointed out in a letter to the press, no one had previously suggested any negligence by the Ordnance Survey. It started a correspondence about the general lack of cultural opportunities in the area. In the course of it, a clergyman pointed out that before the advent of the motorway network allowing those who could afford it fairly easy access to theatres and concert-halls in the big cities, there had been quite a vigorous circle of music and dramatic societies, now alas mostly defunct or moribund; might it be possible to revive some of them for the benefit of people with more limited resources? The churches were supposed to be concerned with the welfare of the poor, and had already been making noises about the lack of innocent activities for youngsters, so perhaps they might make a start.

  The chairman of the district Churches Together group took up the idea, proposing to set up a committee, consider the possibilities and follow up any that looked promising. Despite the groans of “Not another committee!”, the motion was passed comfortably. So was another to co-opt the originator of the Festival idea. Objections that the man had a history of appearing hostile towards organised religion were overruled - “Does it really matter in this instance?” - and he proved surprisingly agreeable. The result, a month or two later, was a circular to all the churches promoting a competition for church choirs.

  Inevitably, once Barbara Maxwell heard that St. Cyprian’s was going to enter it, she determined that St. Cyril’s also had to take part. Since her own school days, she and her opposite number in the other church had been fiercely jealous rivals in every field of activity they shared. In fact, if ever either of them was known to have taken up a new interest, the other felt compelled to follow suit, so that by the time in question the area of conflict had stretched to cover practically everything they did in public.

  Barbara was a great organiser. During the war her father had appointed himself commander of a Home Guard unit somewhere on the south coast, and she had evidently inherited much of his spirit. How poor old Fred Maxwell had attracted her matrimonial attentions, goodness only knew, but as he would say over many a commiseratory jar in the local pub, it took more pluck than he possessed to refuse or question anything that she had set her mind on doing. With her customary vigour she set about knocking the church choir into the sort of shape she thought suitable, regardless of anyone else’s ideas.

  The challenge facing her was that St. Cyprian’s choir was highly regarded, to the extent of being considered a year or so earlier to feature in “Songs of Praise” although nothing came of it; apparently there was a clash of dates. St. Cyril’s was, to put it kindly, less so, but we weren’t sure how far behind at that time. Barbara wouldn’t risk giving the game away by investigating the opposition herself, but sent one of her least conspicuous minions to their Harvest Festival. Unfortunately, for about the first time in her fifty-odd years, Mabel did attract some attention; the vicar buttonholed her, asked kindly if she was new to the district and hoped she might be seen there regularly. She was possibly the world’s least convincing fibber, and I don’t know how she got out of that one, but she apparently managed to escape without betraying herself. She duly reported that we should have a hard struggle to get anywhere near their standard and I thought for a moment that she was about to suggest dropping the idea, but if that was indeed in her mind the expression on Barbara’s face quickly banished it.

  Quality wasn’t the only deficiency at St. Cyril’s; quantity was also lacking for the kind of repertoire to be performed, so Barbara launched an intensive recruiting drive. Excuses about “too many other commitments” were peremptorily overridden. Mercifully she was well aware of my vocal deficiencies, but they didn’t get me quite off the hook; a proper organisation must be set up, someone had to do the admin, and despite all protests that my brain switched off at the first whiff of any financial matter, the job of secretary cum treasurer landed in my lap. As a bank manager’s daughter she probably couldn’t imagine the blind panic induced by a column of figures under a pound sign.

  Somehow she got together a fair number of sopranos, altos, tenors and what might just about pass as baritones or basses, and started a period of intensive training. It was uphill work, and a wag among the tenors once claimed to have seen a posse of the local tom-cats practising boot-throwing in the moonlight on his way home after the previous rehearsal. However, the results gradually became less painful, especially after a couple of the elderly ladies were tactfully advised that their most helpful contribution would be in preparing the refreshments. It wasn’t Barbara herself with the tact, of course; she had the sense to delegate.

  For the actual competition, a coach was to be booked to transport everyone concerned, despite the plentiful private cars available and grumbles about the hire fee from some people who had expected to be given a free ride. As Barbara put it in dismissing objections, all were being treated alike, and in any case she wasn’t going to risk anyone’s getting lost or breaking down on the way. Quotations to provide the transport made my eyes water, but that from Johnnie’s Jaunts was the least exorbitant and we plumped for that. I didn’t know the firm and the frivolous trade name rather worried me, but no one I consulted had substantial criticisms while various people said it was “all right”, although with a dubious intonation that reinforced my doubts.

  I was therefore surprised when the vehicle that turned up had a recent registration, looked remarkably smart and bore a completely different name, but the driver explained that the bosses were friends and often helped each other out when one was stretched. Even so, I asked if he was sure of having come to the right place, and he indignantly waved a barely-legible note in which the name at least seemed to begin with a C. Unconvinced, I mentioned my doubts to Barbara, who was anxious to be off and too impatient to take much notice. “Stop fussing, Gerald. You’re getting to be a proper old woman these days.”

  That stung, as similar comments had recently come from much closer to home, so I didn’t press the point but saw the party off and returned to mending a broken window in the church hall. T
wenty minutes later there was a hammering at the door, where a scruffy-looking character apologised for being late but the bus had had a little problem with the brakes binding. Outside was a vehicle that looked as though it had been commandeered on the way to the scrap-yard; “Johnnie’s Jaunts” was emblazoned in the only paint that might have seen less than twenty or thirty summers, and I strongly suspected that the brakes would be the least of its weaknesses. Nevertheless this was clearly the coach that we’d ordered, and the best I could do was to send the driver looking for a crowd of people waiting at St. Cyprian’s, with an assurance that we’d see the bill was paid.

  I have to confess that I was rather looking forward to rubbing Barbara’s nose in the mistake, until I remembered that “I told you so” is the surest possible way into anyone’s black books, especially when it’s true. Afterwards I was glad to have held my tongue, as on her return Barbara was anything but contrite, and in fact quite jubilant. St. Cyprian’s hadn’t turned up to the festival at all; half way through the proceedings Cynthia Graham had