A Remembered Serenade Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Darling! It would be your first star role!' Mrs. Ransome clasped her hands together and gazed in satisfaction at her daughter.

  'No, Mother, not exactly.' Joanna instinctively adopted the commonsense tone which she used when her mother became intense. 'It's little more than a performance by advanced students, you know,'

  'But in public. And yours is the principal role.'

  'The principal female role,' Joanna corrected.

  'Well — there you are!' Mrs. Ransome put a low value on mere male singers, unless of course they were very handsomely costumed and made a good foil for the leading soprano.

  'The tenor is very important in this work,' Joanna stated firmly. 'And the bass role is terrific, both musi­cally and dramatically. That's why they're bringing in Peter Ellsworthy for the occasion.'

  'Who is he?' Her mother's tone reduced the gentle­man to chorus level.

  'Oh, Mother! He has done any amount of very dis­tinguished work. He's even sung quite important roles at the Garden. I'm thrilled at the thought of singing with him. We have a tremendous scene together. He strangles me.' She smiled happily at this pleasing prospect.

  ' Strangles you? I don't call that very nice!'

  'It isn't meant to be nice,' Joanna explained pa­tiently. 'You see — well, never mind. You'll have plenty of time to study the libretto between now and the performance. I won't give you a resume of the plot now. And of course you understand I'm in the second cast. Martha Singleton has the first night.'

  'Why?' asked Mrs. Ransome disapprovingly.

  'Because she has a better voice than I have,' replied Joanna honestly.

  'I don't believe it!' Her mother bridled indignantly,

  'Oh, but she has! It's quite splendid. She'll be a real dramatic soprano one day. She doesn't sing quite as well as I do, though,' Joanna added, without either conceit or false modesty. 'And I have the edge over her when it comes to acting. In fact, I think I got the part; more on my acting than my singing.'

  'What did you say the work was called?'

  ' "The Love of Three Kings".'

  'I don't think I've ever heard of it.'

  'It isn't very often done. It was written about - oh, I don't know- 1912 or 1913, I think, by a man called Montemezzi. Some very famous people did it in their time - Emilia Trangoni among others. It was her last role before she died.'

  'You mean it's usually done by an old woman?'

  'No, no! It's a young woman's part. Trangoni was the one who was killed in a riding accident on her thirtieth birthday, you know. You would have been a girl at the time.'

  'I think I do remember the name.' Mrs. Ransome wrinkle her forehead thoughtfully. 'Is it a long opera?'

  'Three acts. Bu the soprano is killed at the end of the second act.'

  'What a stupid idea! No Wonder it isn't a very well known opera,' said Mrs. Ransome scornfully.

  'You may have something there,' Joanna agreed with a laugh. And, not for the first time, she was impressed by the way her silly - though very sweet - mother could stumble on a profound truth.

  There was an easy-going and charming relationship between the two. Joanna, who could hardly remember her father, had adopted a slightly maternal attitude towards her mother for more years than she could measure. There had always been something appealing and helpless about Mrs. Ransome, although, like a lot of fragile-looking women, she had a strain of toughness which disagreeably surprised anyone who came up against her most treasured convictions. The strongest of these convictions was that her one child was distinctly more remarkable than anyone else's child.

  This attitude, which might well have spoiled a less well-balanced girl, amused and rather touched Joanna. From time to time she brought her mother up short, in the nicest possible way, and forced her to accept a slightly more reasonable view of things. But inevitably Mrs. Ransome slipped back into her favour­ite little bits of self-delusion, from which she derived a good deal of fairly harmless contentment.

  Life had not been too kind to her, and Joanna was aware of this. The husband she adored - and on whom she had willingly relied for most decisions and the tack­ling of most difficulties - had died suddenly of a heart attack when Joanna was only seven years old. After everything had been settled up and a not unimpressive life insurance policy gathered in, Mrs. Ransome found herself in possession of a pleasant, quite well-appointed house, and a very modest income.

  Her vigorous and capable sister-in-law had made various suggestions about the ways in which she could augment this income. But Mrs. Ransome had blenched at the thought of pursuing any of these. The role of pretty, slightly helpless widow became her admirably, and this she played with moderate success throughout Joanna's schooldays and into her years as a singing student.

  Joanna's Aunt Georgina thought - and indeed said, because she believed in giving her opinions, sought or unsought ~ that music in general and singing in par­ticular hardly promised a secure future, and added that Joanna would do better to train for something less what she called 'airy-fairy'. But Joanna, who believed in her own gifts, was easily persuaded by her mother at least to take the chance of seeing how far her talent would take her.

  'It isn't as though we can't afford it, provided we're careful about other things,' her mother insisted. 'And your Aunt Georgina doesn't know everything, even if she thinks she does.'

  Nevertheless, Mrs. Ransome was sufficiently in awe of her sister-in-law to attach a good deal of value to her approval. After all, she was a highly successful head­mistress, though now retired. And so Mrs. Ransome now remarked with a good deal of satisfaction, 'Even Georgma should be impressed by your being cast for such a role.'

  Joanna looked sceptical. In her experience Aunt Georgina took a good deal of impressing. But she knew nothing would stop her mother doing some harmless boasting about her, so she said no more.

  The very next day, when she came in from the music college she attended each day, she realized from the slightly raised voices issuing from the sitting-room that her aunt had called and that her mother was already in full flight.

  'It's a most unusual opera - very rarely done,' she heard her mother say. 'Very gratifying for Joanna to be chosen.'

  'What is the name of this unusual opera?' her aunt's voice inquired briskly.

  'Something about the "Love of Three - of Three-" '

  ' "The Love of Three Oranges",' said Aunt Georgina knowledgeably. 'By Prokofiev.'

  'No, that wasn't the name,' Joanna heard her mother say doubtfully. 'It's by someone called Mon­tezuma or something like that.'

  'Most improbable,' stated Aunt Georgina with authority. 'Montezuma was an Aztec Emperor in the sixteenth century.'

  'O-oh—' Poor Mrs. Ransome sounded so flum­moxed that Joanna came to the rescue.

  'It's "The Love of Three Kings", Aunt Georgina,' she said, coming into the room. 'And it's by Montemezzi.'

  'I've never heard of it,' stated Aunt Georgina, as though this automatically down-rated its artistic value.

  ' Haven't you?' Mrs. Ransome seized the advantage. 'Quite a lot of famous people have sung in it. Including one very famous one who died on her thirtieth birth­day, poor thing. Isn't that sad?' she added quite incon­sequentially.

  'Not necessarily,' replied her sister-in-law. 'I've heard some singers I would have regarded as ex­pendable long before their thirtieth birthdays.'

  ' Georgina , that isn't a very kind thing to say!' ex­claimed Mrs. Ransome reproachfully.

  'It was not intended to be kind,' retorted Miss Ransome, who had enjoyed a reputation for a some­what caustic wit throughout her school career. A repu­tation which had no effect, however, on her capacity to turn out pupils who were very reasonably well behaved and quite
astonishingly well educated. Indeed, it is even possible that there was some connection between the two things.

  'I suppose,' she went on, 'you are referring to Emilia Trangoni.'

  'Yes, that's right!' Joanna smiled at her aunt. 'You do have a tremendous fund of general knowledge, Aunt Georgina, don't you? I mean, Trangoni's was not exactly a world-famous name, I imagine.'

  'I have a useful smattering of knowledge on a variety of subjects,' her aunt conceded with some satisfaction. 'But then I was fortunate enough to be born before the passion for educational specialization. Today people are regarded with awe if they know a good deal about two largely useless subjects, even if they are grossly ignorant about their own incomparable language.'

  This, of course, is the kind of statement which, un­happily true though it may be, is calculated to bring most conversations to a full stop. There was therefore a pause. Then Aunt Georgina took up the subject again herself.

  'Tragoni,' she repeated thoughtfully, 'Old Justin Wilmore should have something about her in that col­lection of his. If she was famous in this unusual role he would be sure to have photographs and programmes, possibly even costumes.'

  'Aunt Georgina! what a wonderful idea!' A streak of excited colour showed on Joanna's high cheekbones, and her grey eyes widened and sparkled, 'Do you think perhaps I could—'

  'Who is Justin Wilmore?' inquired Mrs. Ransome, slightly out of her depth once more.

  'He lives in that attractive greystone house about a mile from my new bungalow,' her sister-in-law ex­plained briefly. 'Something of a recluse, of course, though he was very courteous when I stopped to admire his roses the other day. A little vague in his manner, but a gentleman. Unquestionably a gentle­man.'

  'But how could he help Joanna?' Mrs. Ransome's mind was one-track when it came to her daughter's interests.'

  He has a famous collection of operatic scores and photographs and costumes - that sort of thing,' Joanna explained. 'Aunt Georgina is right. He might well have something on my role. The only question is - how do I get to see him?'

  'I shall give you an introduction,' her aunt stated.

  'On the strength of a chat about roses?' Mrs. Ran­some sounded rather disparaging.

  'We spoke of other things besides roses,' replied Aunt Georgina, which naturally raised such interesting pos­sibilities in her sister-in-law's mind that her beautiful soft dark eyes took on an unnecessarily speculative expression.

  'Don't be silly, Pansy,' said Aunt Georgina. (Mrs. Ransome really was called Pansy, and astonishingly well the name suited her, somehow.) 'I shall open nego­tiations, Joanna,' Aunt Georgina went on magis­terially. 'And when—' she did not say 'if, Joanna noticed - 'when I have arranged an interview for you, I shall telephone and you can come down. It will give you an opportunity to see my new bungalow at the same time.'

  'I should love that, Aunt Georgina,' Joanna said sincerely. 'And I can't thank you enough.'

  'Thank me when the interview has been arranged,' replied her aunt. And then she took her leave,

  ' Georgina means well, of course,' said Mrs. Ransome somewhat elliptically when they were alone.

  'Indeed she does!' agreed Joanna, who was feeling very well disposed towards her aunt at the moment. 'And she almost always manages to carry out whatever she decides to do. It couldn't be more fortunate, Mother! If she really gets me an opportunity to see the Wilmore collection and talk to the old gentleman him­self, it will be a tremendous help. Provided he has any­thing on this particular work, I mean. It's invaluable to get a good rich background of information when one is studying a character like this. I shall enjoy seeing Aunt G ’ s new bungalow too. I wish she'd suggested your coming with me.'

  'I don't,' replied Mrs. Ransome without rancour, 'You would naturally go on your own to see this Mr. Wilmore, and I should be left with Georgina . And al­though I'm very fond of her, of course— she paused, as though reviewing this statement and finding it not quite accurate - T do find her manner rather wearing at times. Anyway, I suppose you'll only be away for the day.'

  In this she was wrong, however. Georgina Ransome did nothing by halves. A week later Joanna received a letter written in her aunt's strong, legible hand.

  'My dear Joanna, Your telephone appears to be out of order. Or else you and your mother have been out a great deals Anyway, the interview with Mr.

  Wilmore is arranged. He will expect you at his house at 2.30 next Saturday afternoon. I suggest you catch the 10.30 Green Line bus from Victoria to Dalrymple Corner. This is a request stop, so be on the lookout for it soon after the bus leaves Pethwick Green. It should arrive at the Corner at 12.2 but is frequently late. When you get out walk about three hundred yards in the same direction as the bus, and you will see my bungalow on the right-hand side.

  'I shall give you lunch, of course, and then drive you to the gate of Mr, Wilmore's house. I should like you to stay the night with me afterwards, as I shall want to hear a full account of what happens. The Sunday bus service back is quite a good one. There is a convenient bus at 9.45 a.m , - Your affectionate Aunt Georgina,'

  'Why does she give you the sort of directions one would give to a child?' said Joanna's mother rather crossly. 'Doesn't she realize you're a responsible adult by now?'

  'It doesn't matter.' Joanna smiled happily, 'She's actually arranged it, bless her heart! It's a chance in a thousand.'

  Intensely musical though she was, Joanna had always had as much interest in the drama of what she was singing, which was probably why opera had always appealed to her more than concert work. On a stage - even no more than the stage at the college - she immediately felt involved in a character, not from a merely superficial point of view but in real depth. She liked to study the background, the origins of the person she was to perform, and she was passionately interested to hear of any famous exponent of a role. To browse through the Wilmore collection was going to be an experience after her own heart. And the fact that she was to stay with her aunt for the night afterwards was not irksome to her, as it would have been to her mother.

  Joanna was genuinely fond of her rather formidable Aunt Georgina and, unlike her mother, guessed that self-sufficient though she might seem, Aunt Georgina was often lonely - missing the girls who had made up so much of her active life. If it would please her to have her niece stay with her and discuss hopes and plans for the future, then Joanna was more than ready to afford her that minor pleasure in return for the very real ser­vice her aunt was doing her.

  It was a beautiful early autumn morning when Joanna set out, the kind of morning to lift the heart and encourage bright hopes. And the drive out of London to the quite unspoiled part of Sussex where Aunt Georgina now lived was a rare pleasure to Joanna. She loved her life in London , and revelled in the musical world in which she worked and lived; but the sight of golden cornfields and green pastureland soothed and charmed her, and put her in a hopeful mood for her interview with Justin Wilmore.

  She wondered what he would be like. 'A gentleman,' Aunt Georgina had said. And, from the one or two details she had added, Joanna guessed a gentleman in the rather old-world sense of the word. Well, that was something she could appreciate and enjoy. If they were to talk of bygone days and great performances of the past, no brash or harsh note should be allowed to creep in.

  She gazed out of the window at the passing land­scape, and presently the peace and tranquility of the scene began to merge with her own thoughts. She con­tentedly imagined herself gathering so much valuable information about the heroine of 'The Love of Three Kings' that when she finally came to perform the part the critics would say something like: 'Joanna Ransome not only sang the part of Fiora admirably but gave an impersonation of the character which was remarkable in one so young and inexperienced. It was as though she had penetrated to the innermost thoughts of the tragic princess—'

  'Pethwick Green,' called out the driver, jerking her out of her happy day-dream into the realization that she was nearing her destination. She asked the drive
r to stop at the next request stop and sat looking out for Dalrymple Corner. It gave her a certain amount of pleasure to notice that her watch registered exactly two minutes past twelve as the bus came to a halt.

  She was the only passenger to descend at this point, and the driver gave her a friendly wave as he drove on. She stood there for a moment or two, taking in the full charm of the scene, telling herself, 'Perhaps I shall re­member this all my life as the place from which I started off to the interview that launched me on my real career.'

  She laughed a little at the fanciful notion, though she felt more than half serious about it. Then, still in a pleasant half-dream, she went to cross the country road. As she did so, a bright green sports car came swooping round the corner at considerable speed. With an exclamation of alarm Joanna jumped back on to the grass verge, missed her footing and fell backwards into the ditch at the side of the road.

  She heard the car skid to a standstill and, as she began to pick herself out of a nasty mixture of mud and nettles, the driver came running up - to apologize, as she fondly imagined. Before she could start to reassure him, however, he addressed her in tones of the utmost irritation.

  'And what do you think you were doing? Trying to commit suicide?'

  'No. Trying to avoid some idiot who was driving much too fast,' retorted Joanna, aware that she was not appearing to advantage on her hands and knees and covered with dust.

  'If you don't mind my saying so—'

  'I do mind your saying so - if you're proposing to blame me for your own irresponsible driving,' she inter­rupted. 'And instead of berating me, you might help me out of this ditch!'

  'I'm sorry,' he said stiffly and, extending a strong looking brown hand, he hauled her out of the ditch with some dexterity and began to brush her down.

  'I can see to that myself, thank you.' She spoke stiffly in her turn.

  'You're not hurt, are you?' He sounded slightly more concerned now, possibly because he was beginning to recover from his own fright.

  'No. Except for some nettle stings and a shaking.'

  'I'm sorry,' he said again. 'Can I drive you any­where?'