The Song of Hartgrove Hall (24 page)

‘I'll have to pick up the bloody pieces afterwards when it all goes wrong,' I said, signalling for another snifter.

Albert shrugged. ‘Then you do. You're the boy's grandfather, not his father. It's not up to you to make the decisions. If you keep sticking your nose in, you won't change anything but you will thoroughly annoy Clara.'

I turned to Marcus. ‘You're very quiet.'

He frowned. ‘It's a quandary. I agree with you that the boy is far too young to perform in public. It's a horrible idea.'

‘Good. At least I have one ally,' I grumbled, giving Albert a sharp look.

Marcus waved his hand. ‘Oh do be quiet, Fox. Albert's perfectly correct. Don't piss off your daughter. It won't end well.'

I stared miserably at the melting ice in my glass.

‘Do you remember in the early days when I used to advise you on your orchestration?' asked Marcus.

‘Good grief, do I remember? “Too thick. Too much cello. No pianist could play that unless he had four fucking hands.”'

Marcus looked extremely smug, an unusual expression for a man of eighty-two. ‘Ah, yes, but was I ever wrong?'

‘No.'

He looked even more smug. Positively Cheshire cat. ‘Well, Albert and I are equally correct about this. You've said your bit.
Now shut up and cheer at the sidelines. If it does all go wrong, then be glad that you're around to help pick up the pieces.'

‘Don't upset them all, Fox,' said Albert, more gently this time. ‘You seem better. You've put on a bit of weight and you smile. The boy's doing you good. You don't want to lose him by being rude to his parents.'

This wasn't the advice that I'd wanted. I'd rather hoped that the three of us would blaze into the production company's offices like the ageing cowboys in
The Magnificent Seven
and call a halt to the whole thing. Unfortunately, I had a disagreeable, churning feeling in my guts suggesting either that the oysters were off or, more likely, that my friends were right. I decided to voice no further objections to Clara and Ralph – or, as Edie liked to say, ‘For once in your life, Harry, keep
schtum
.' I wished she could have been here to see it. Harry Fox-Talbot, keeping
schtum
at last.

The meeting wasn't held at the television studios but in cramped offices in Soho, plastered with posters of previous talent-show winners – at least I presumed they were winners due to the number of exclamation marks after their names. Robin, Clara and I perched in a row on a leather sofa, while Ralph prowled the waiting room, pretending to read the industry magazines. On the opposite sofa a doll-faced girl of eight or nine, wearing a pink T-shirt and a glittery Alice band, sat with her mother, a large stuffed bear with a matching Alice band between them. She smiled at Robin, who grimaced and started to pick his nose. My grandson had not yet developed charm.

I was already irritated. I didn't think children ought to be kept waiting like this. It only exacerbates their anxiety. But then I wondered whether perhaps that was the point. To see
how they managed under pressure. Robin clutched his music on his lap. He didn't need it to play, but its presence comforted him.

A barrage of overly solicitous assistants kept offering us a surprising variety of waters. ‘Still? Sparking? Chilled? Room temperature?'

‘Tea, please,' I said. ‘Hot.'

Clara shot me an anxious glance. I sighed. Robin had promised me that he would behave and in turn Clara had extorted the same promise from me. After twenty minutes or so we were called in to see the producers, ahead of the girl and her mother.

A cluster of chairs had been set out around a coffee table. The walls were lined with yet more posters of aspiring and perspiring young men and women, most of them mid-song, eyes screwed up, pink mouths open as wide as starling chicks' waiting for worms to be popped in. Three people stood up to greet us as we entered, two women and a man. All of them were much too young – everyone seems young to me but even the man, who was the eldest of the three, was barely out of his twenties.

‘Hi, I'm Mike,' he said. ‘This is Ellie and Jocasta.'

The two women smiled and waved in bubbly unison, like synchronised swimmers. Ellie, a sparkly blonde who looked as though she ought to still be in school finishing her geography homework, grinned warmly at Robin. ‘We're so excited to meet you, Robin. We loved the tape your dad sent in. You're very talented.'

Robin said nothing, only stared. There were a few minutes of chit-chat about the weather. I've observed over the years that this is the way that one can distinguish meetings in the various parts of the world. In England one starts with a discussion of the weather, usually commiserating about the rain, occasionally marvelling at an outbreak of sunshine,
while in Los Angeles every meeting begins with at least fifteen minutes spent complaining about traffic. Meetings in Dorset inevitably start with discussions on compost and the progress of one's vegetable patch.

The other woman, Jocasta, leaned over and whispered something to Ellie, who nodded.

‘You're the grandfather?' said Ellie to me as if it were a role for a play.

‘I'm Robin's grandfather, yes.'

‘And you're the composer?'

‘I am a composer.'

‘And it was you who discovered Robin's gift?' She glanced down again at Jocasta's clipboard.

‘I realised that he had an affinity for music, yes.'

‘And you're a well-known composer, is that right? And you run a series of summer music concerts at a country house?'

‘Well, at my house,' I said.

Ellie frowned and looked at the clipboard in Jocasta's lap. ‘Oh. So you actually own,' she ran her finger down the page, ‘Hartgrove Hall in Dorset?'

‘I do.'

‘Oh.' She appeared momentarily stumped and then shrugged. ‘We like to reflect the audience's world back at them and so perhaps Hartgrove Hall is a bit' – she hesitated, reaching for the right word – ‘rarefied for us.'

I thought this was a bit much since it was quite clear to me that both Jocasta and Ellie had been educated at Cheltenham Ladies' College or some such establishment. They had the gleam and shimmer of the expensively educated. The three of them stared at me, clearly making a reassessment. Jocasta produced a flourish of fresh notes.

‘But you teach him? That must be a wonderful experience.'

‘I don't teach him any more. I'm afraid I'm a limited pianist. He comes to my house to practise.'

Three sets of eyes now swivelled eagerly to face Clara and Ralph. ‘You can't afford to buy Robin his own piano? That's fantastic.'

They wrote copious notes.

Ralph coughed. ‘No, that isn't it at all. We could. We decided that Robin is so hooked on the piano it was better not to have one in the house.'

‘I'm the same with chocolate,' said Jocasta, smiling at Robin. ‘Can't have it in the house. I just can't resist.' She giggled.

I felt deeply uneasy. My instinct was that these people were much, much smarter than they were pretending to be. There was a careful plan here and simply because we couldn't see it didn't mean that it wasn't laid out meticulously around our ankles.

I cleared my throat. ‘May I ask what is the purpose of today's meeting?'

‘Of course!' said Ellie. ‘I'm so glad you asked. Thank you.'

Mike, who hadn't spoken yet, leaned forward and addressed himself directly to Robin. ‘We simply want to have a friendly chat. Our researchers have told us a bit about you but we'd like to hear it from you. Then if we're all happy – you most of all, Robin – we'll put you up tonight in a nice hotel in London and pay for you and your family to go out for a nice dinner, and then tomorrow you'll show us what you can do on the piano.'

Clara frowned. ‘He's auditioning tomorrow? I thought the auditions for the new series weren't for months.'

Mike shook his head. ‘The open auditions aren't till August. This is a special pre-performance. It's not an audition at all.'

We must have looked utterly confused as Ellie smiled indulgently at Mike. ‘We like to have a few really special performers, some absolute gems of talent dotted amongst the public auditions. We want to see if Robin might be a good fit for one of those spots.'

Jocasta took over. ‘So, if all goes well, Robin would go along to the open auditions in Bournemouth or, if you prefer, here in London, but he'd already know everyone and he'd almost certainly be guaranteed a place on the live show.'

‘He does well tomorrow and then he'll be on the show?' asked Ralph.

‘Very probably. Nothing is ever absolutely certain in live TV,' said Mike.

‘So tomorrow is a pre-audition audition?' I asked, trying to keep the disdain from my voice.

‘I wouldn't call it that,' said Ellie, brightly.

‘No, but I wouldn't be wrong if I did,' I said and Clara shot me a filthy look.

I bit my tongue but I was troubled. This wasn't how things ought to be done. When I asked a musician to play to secure a spot in the festival orchestra or for a new recording, then I jolly well told them it was an audition.

‘We shouldn't really be discussing any of this just yet,' said Mike. ‘The behind-the-scenes stuff of television is very boring but we do need to keep it secret or the magic is spoiled.'

‘If Robin does decide to play at the pre-performance tomorrow, we will need all of you to sign a confidentiality agreement,' said Ellie with a particular nod in my direction.

I glanced at Clara. ‘I'm here to do what I'm told.'

For some unknown reason this seemed only to infuriate Clara and she looked away, refusing to meet my eye.

Jocasta returned to her clipboard with its kaleidoscope of neon-pen highlights. She spoke softly, her voice sticky with sympathy. ‘I understand it was the passing of Robin's grandmother that brought the two of you together.'

I stiffened. I would not discuss Edie.

She tried again. ‘I understand that Edie – it was Edie, wasn't it? – was a singer?'

Clara shot me an anxious look, clearly unhappy herself at
the line of questioning. ‘Yes, my mother's name was Edie. Her maiden and stage name was Edie Rose.'

The three producers nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Yes. The famous wartime singer. “A Shropshire Thrush.” Amazing. Robin has such talented grandparents,' said Ellie in reverent tones.

‘Musicality often runs in families,' I said. ‘The Bach dynasty is the most famous, perhaps. But there was also the Strauss family, and Wolfgang Mozart's father Leopold was an accomplished pianist as well as a composer. And of course there's the Von Trapp family. One mustn't forget them. Without them, lederhosen wouldn't be nearly as popular as they are today.'

Mike didn't smile. ‘Your dad's funny,' he said to Clara.

‘He is a talented man,' she said dryly. ‘But I'm afraid, in our family, musical ability skipped a generation.'

‘In any case, the grandparents make for a compelling back-story. It's great stuff. Really great,' said Jocasta.

I winced. ‘It's not a backstory. It's my life,' I said.

‘Of course,' said Jocasta quickly. ‘We're not trying to diminish you.'

Ralph snorted. ‘Oh, don't worry about that. Fox is never knowingly diminished.'

Clearly sensing a family squabble brewing, Ellie turned to Robin who'd remained silent throughout the entire conversation.

‘How about you, my love? Is there anything you're worried about?'

Robin shook his head.

‘Good! That's how it should be!'

I sighed inwardly. These people littered their conversation with exclamation marks. It must be exhausting to maintain such a fever pitch of enthusiasm.

‘Do you have any questions, lovely?'

‘Yes,' said Robin. It was the first time he'd opened his mouth except to slot in one of the cupcakes that had been set out on the table.

‘What is it, my love?'

‘When can I play the piano?'

They all laughed uproariously, perfectly delighted with him.

I did not join in.