The Song of Hartgrove Hall (23 page)

‘I dunno. Some people. Daddy knows them. I'm not supposed to tell you. Mummy said, “Grandpa won't like it.
Robin George Bennet, you mustn't tell Grandpa because he won't like it one bit.”'

‘Bloody right,' I said. ‘For God's sake. What are they thinking? Ruddy fools.'

I was almost shouting and Robin looked as if he might start to cry.

‘Oh, darling. I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you.'

‘Don't you like the telly?'

‘I don't like children on the telly.'

‘Never? Then you couldn't have kids in any of the shows. Even the ones for kids.'

‘That's different. I don't think that bright young chaps like you should perform in front of people. Not till you're older.'

We pottered about by the river for a little longer, but I kept checking my watch, wanting to return to the house and wait for Clara. It grew cold and we headed back. Exhausted, Robin struggled to walk and whined for me to carry him. I heaved him onto my shoulders, invigorated that I was still strong enough. There's life in this old dog yet, I declared silently. I hummed an old tune as we trudged back to the house. Robin was so tired that I laid him down to snooze in the drawing room, tucking him under the ancient horsehair blanket, which he insisted upon and then complained was itchy. I poured myself a Scotch and waited.

I heard the rumble of wheels on gravel. A few minutes later voices echoed in the passage. Lucy and Clara appeared in the drawing room. I pointed to Robin and put my finger to my lips. Clara turned round and waved at her daughters to be quiet. Katy and Annabel crept in, tiptoeing elaborately, and lay down beside the fire. Ralph followed a moment later and, after helping himself to a slug of the good Scotch, stretched out in the chair nearest the fire. I stiffened.

‘Well, how was it?' I said quietly.

Lucy shrugged. ‘Short. Sad.'

I didn't know what to add to this. I was sure that there was some kind of pleasantry invented for the occasion but not knowing what it was I said nothing. The girls looked very smart. They wore dark skirt suits and I thought how pretty my daughters were. Such things shouldn't matter but they do.

‘Darlings, would you like a drink? Gin and tonic? A glass of wine?'

‘Gin and tonic,' called Katy from the hearthrug, making her sister giggle.

I opened a bottle of wine, found some crisps and we settled back beside the fire. The children sipped lemonade. Katy eyed me with interest.

‘The rabbi wondered why you weren't there. He thought you were poorly. He said we could have done it another time when you were better.'

‘I'm not poorly,' I said.

‘No,' agreed Katy.

She was fishing for information. I couldn't understand how these women learned such tactics so young. I glanced at my son-in-law, occupied with his whisky and filling in the crossword on my copy of
The Times
(another habit I can't abide – what sort of chap does another chap's crossword without checking first?) I was outflanked by women, and the men who ought to be on my side were either aged five and fast asleep or, in the case of Ralph, unhelpful and hostile. I decided it was time to change the topic of conversation.

‘Robin tells me that you want him to go on some television show.'

‘Blast it, Clara. I thought you'd told him not to say anything,' snapped Ralph, no longer making an effort to be quiet.

Clara looked anxiously from her husband to me, wondering how to placate us both. ‘I did tell him not to say anything.' She turned to me. ‘Of course we were going to discuss it with
you, Daddy, but I didn't think today was the right time. And nothing is decided yet.'

‘I should hope not,' I said, cross all over again.

‘It's a tremendous opportunity,' said Ralph, fixing me with a look of ill-concealed dislike. ‘I don't really see why it's a matter for the whole family.'

I glanced over to the sofa where Robin was sprawled, still asleep. I wished for the thousandth time that Edie were here. She would have defused the situation, mollified Ralph and quietly persuaded them both that having Robin perform in public at such a young age was a ghastly idea. I tried to think what she would have said, although inevitably I was incapable of presenting it with much tact.

‘Your mother sang as a child and loathed it. Her lifelong stage fright was a consequence of having been forced to perform when she was so young.'

Clara stiffened. ‘She never said that to me. And no one is forcing Robin to do anything. He loves to perform.'

I felt a pulse tick in my temple. ‘He loves to play, not to perform.' I glanced at Ralph who was rolling his eyes at Clara. ‘No, Ralph, it is not the same thing. At present Robin's enjoyment of music is a very private matter. He plays for himself. If we happen to listen, then all to the good. He likes to please us – we're his family, after all. But he does not play for us. He's a charming and selfish little fellow who plays solely for his own pleasure. And at five years old it's absolutely right that he should. Performance, on the other hand, is about presenting oneself to an audience. It necessitates self-awareness, which Robin doesn't have and, frankly, oughtn't to have.'

I sat back on the sofa and steadied myself with a sip of whisky. My heart was beating wildly like a panicked bird, a most unpleasant sensation. Katy and Annabel stared at me, mouths agape. I didn't think many people dared to contradict
their father, but I confess that, when it comes to matters of music, I'm afraid of no man.

Clara shot a pleading look at her sister. Next to Edie, Lucy was considered the best person to reason with me. Lucy was always the peacemaker. When they were girls she'd confess to Clara's crimes simply to get the unpleasantness over with. We never believed her, leading, inevitably, to Clara complaining that, in my eyes at least, darling Lucy could do no wrong.

Lucy cleared her throat. ‘Papa, you keep telling us how difficult it is to succeed as a pianist. Isn't this a wonderful opportunity for Robin?'

Ralph seized his moment. ‘It is. I showed the producers a tape of him and they were astounded. They've never had a kid his age on the show. They're desperate for a prodigy.'

I winced, unable to abide that term. ‘Child prodigies are circus animals. Remarkable because they're freaks of nature. Brilliant but freaks nonetheless. They want to put him on television so that people can gawp at him.'

‘Oh for God's sake, Fox. There is no need to be so melodramatic,' said Ralph, helping himself to yet more of the good single malt. ‘It's a fantastic opportunity. He works hard. We all do. The lessons and travel are bloody expensive. It all mounts up.'

I thought this was a bit of a cheek, considering that I'd surreptitiously paid for Robin's lessons.

‘And yes, Fox, I know that you've been paying for the lessons. That has to stop. It's humiliating. I'm his father and it's up to me to foot his bills.'

He dared me to contradict him but I threw up my hands. What he said was true: it's a man's right to pay for his own son.

Clara frowned and looked at her daughters. ‘Wouldn't you prefer to go and play or watch a video?'

They shook their heads in unison. Watching us squabble was clearly much more interesting than any other kind of entertainment.

Lucy frowned and coughed. ‘Has anyone asked Robin what he would like?'

‘For pity's sake,' I exclaimed, quite exasperated by these trendy parenting notions. I've never given two hoots for what a child proclaims he wants. ‘He wants to eat chocolate instead of vegetables, wipe bogies under the dining-room table and play the piano twenty-three hours each day. We decide what's best.'

‘No,' said Ralph, ‘Clara and I decide.'

I grunted, too angry to talk, and looked over at Robin, snoozing on the sofa. His eyelids flickered. The rascal was only pretending to be asleep. I hoped the argument hadn't upset him. On the other hand, I dreaded that there was worse to come.

The television show was one of those ghastly talent contests. I'd never watched it before but Clara lent me some videos that the production company had sent through and I dutifully endured a few episodes. I fast-forwarded through most of the first few, which I considered to be the worst kind of freak show. Some of the contestants appeared to have some kind of mental illness and in my view should have been referred to a doctor instead of being given an opportunity to share their delusions with the nation. It was a pitiful spectacle. It never ceases to bewilder me what people find entertaining. There are so many marvellous and talented individuals – musicians, actors, ballerinas – all of whom are eager to transport us with their remarkable skills, and yet many of us prefer to watch the twitchings of the asinine and the damaged. It's the modern
equivalent of the gallows. Sterile and sanctioned, but a gallows nonetheless – we applaud while they dance in the air.

I digress. These things infuriated and frustrated me but, as Robin never stopped reminding me, I am very old.

It was the first of Robin's meetings with the producers in London and Clara and Robin wanted me to go. I did not bother to ask whether Ralph felt the same way since it was perfectly clear that he did not. The meeting was in the afternoon and, although we had time beforehand, for once I did not invite Clara and Robin to lunch with me at the club. I could feel Clara waiting for the invitation, but while I did feel rather bad about it (despite everything, I do very much enjoy my daughters' company and taking them out to luncheon is a father's great pleasure), on this occasion I'd arranged to meet Marcus and Albert. I found myself once again very much in need of their advice. Clara and Robin disappeared to John Lewis to purchase new school shoes or some such, and I took a taxi down to Pall Mall and my club.

I enjoy playing the part of the old gent when I come to town. The pavement along St James's is strewn with elderly chaps much like myself, like white anemones. They all wear similar suits: good hard-wearing tweed, never in fashion but also never quite out of it. We fellows are an endangered breed in general, but the clubs along Pall Mall are stuffed with us. They are places where jackets and ties must be worn, where burgundy and cigars are encouraged, while denim and women are frowned upon.

My club is the RAC. Nothing to do with the automobile rescue service any longer; it is instead one of those last bastions of civility or old fogery, depending on your point of view. Being an old fogey, I am fond of the place. It's very comfortable – a little too comfortable after yet another shiny refurbishment. I preferred the worn leather, the slightly gloomy bar and the
atmosphere of regretful yet elegant decay, but with members dying off at quite a rate, the club needed to encourage the enemy – young chaps of merely forty or fifty – to join.

A porter in a red uniform greeted me at the desk.

‘Mr Fox-Talbot, Sir Marcus and Mr Shields are waiting for you in the bar.'

I walked across the chequered floor to the new bar, ablaze with the light from an array of chandeliers.

‘Morning,' said Marcus a little sadly. ‘They've cleaned out all the nooks and repapered the crannies. I don't like it at all.'

‘No,' I agreed, glancing about. ‘It's beastly. It feels like a gentlemen's club in drag.'

‘Well, I like it,' said Albert. ‘I think the new bar is splendid.'

‘You always were a bit of a modernist,' reproached Marcus, and Albert laughed.

‘I'm not sure that liking art deco lamps and polished brass makes me a modernist exactly. Shall we order drinks?'

This was another thing that I liked about my old chums. There was never the slightest hesitation about pre-luncheon drinks. Clara and Lucy, even Ralph, inevitably objected on the grounds that they'd really better not since they had work to do in the afternoon. I've always considered that a paltry excuse. If I'm honest, some of my most innovative works have been achieved as a direct result of a Negroni, a dozen oysters and a bottle of lunchtime Chablis.

We settled down with our drinks and, after a few minutes of chit-chat, Marcus turned to me with a ‘Well? What's up?'

I told them as succinctly as I could about the television business, which wasn't succinctly at all, since I succeeded in getting het up and furious all over again. They listened without interruption and only when I slowed, reaching for my glass, did Albert raise an eyebrow.

‘Are you quite finished, Fox?' he asked.

‘Yes. I think so. The whole business is dreadful. It's a terrible thing for the boy.'

‘Quite so,' agreed Marcus.

Albert sighed. ‘Whether it is or it isn't, you are not a musician in this situation. You're a grandfather. If you've made your point, which, knowing you, old chap, you probably have several times over with decreasing politeness . . .' He glanced at me and I nodded: it was perfectly true. The last time I'd said my piece, Clara had left pretty quickly without saying goodbye. ‘Then I'm afraid,' Albert said, ‘it's time to shut the hell up.'