The Song of Hartgrove Hall Read Online Free PDF

thought I played her valiantly.’
    â€˜With absolute chivalry. A lesser man would have chopped it, sorry, her, up mid-performance for kindling.’
    â€˜Are you trying to charm young Fox here?’ asks Jack, appearing at my side so clearly unperturbed by the prospect that I’m thoroughly put out.
    A trio of girls and their beaus step out onto the terrace in Jack’s wake. Oblivious, he pulls people along as if they were the trail behind a shooting star. They say he was one of the best officers in his battalion, that his men would follow him anywhere, do anything for him. I believe it.
    The low balustrades of the terrace are smashed, but spread with frost they catch in the light and glisten.
    â€˜I didn’t get my song,’ I complain. Drink has made me bold.
    â€˜You first,’ says Edie. ‘It’s only fair and Jack says you can sing.’
    â€˜He can, he can. He’s splendid,’ says Jack. My brother has the kindness and generosity of the utterly self-assured.
    â€˜Fine. What shall I sing?’
    â€˜That one you do for me and George. I like that one. He’s terribly clever, he wrote it himself.’
    I wince at his enthusiasm. Jack’s referring to a bawdy and frankly filthy ditty I made up to amuse him and George, but it’s too late and Edie’s turning to me expectantly.
    â€˜In that case I demand a Harry Fox-Talbot original. I won’t accept anything less.’
    I rack my brains for something neither too simple nor too rude. Others have gathered on the terrace, but I don’t mind. I never mind an audience for music. According to my brothers, before Mother died I used to come downstairs and sing for dinner guests in my nightie. I hope Jack hasn’t told Edie this. I can’t ask him not to because then he certainly will. I clear my throat.
    â€˜All right. Here you go. This isn’t strictly written by me, but I heard it once upon a time and this is a tidy variation on a theme.’
    I’m not a distinguished singer, but my voice is pleasant enough and, I suppose, expressive. I can make a few instruments say what I’m thinking – pianos, church organs and my own voice. I’m not quite six foot and not quite handsome. My eyes aren’t as blue as my brothers’ but I’ve observed that when I sing girls forget I’m not as tall as they’d thought and not as handsome as they’d hoped.
    I sing without accompaniment. I don’t look at Edie or the other girls. The frost is thick as snow and I watch the song rise from my lips as steam. I’ve never seen a song fly before. The words drift over the lawn. It’s one of Edie’s old songs from before the war. I sing the names of the flowers and they float out into the darkness – yellow primroses and violets bright against the wintry ground. I sing a verse or two and then I stop. I can fool them for a short while, but I know if I go on too long my voice can’t hold them. That takes real skill, and a real voice. A voice like Edie Rose’s.
    â€˜Jolly good. Bloody marvellous,’ shouts Jack and claps me on the back.
    The others applaud and the girls smile and, for the first time that evening, try to catch my eye. I should make the most of this – it’s a temporary reprieve from invisibility. The effect of a song is much like that of a glass of champagne and lasts only as long. I glance at Edie. She doesn’t look at me and she doesn’t clap with the others.

May 2000
    I knew the girls were worried about me. I could always tell when a lecture was coming. Clara would telephone and inform me that they were coming round for tea, so I would check the cupboards for the good biscuits. Dinner or lunch with the assembled grandchildren and Clara’s harassed, distracted husband was a social call but tea with both daughters could mean only one thing.
    On this occasion, they sat down side by side on the Edwardian sofa, a little