slow-witted creature to answer, approaching footsteps resounded on the quayside.
I drummed my fingers. Rupert or Lenny I did not mind. But I had no desire to be found by Michael in conference with this man.
It was too late. The seaman had actually drawn breath to answer when the footsteps halted on the quay above
Dolly
and a loud, commanding, and familiar voice demanded, “And who the hell may you be, bothering Madame Rossi? Get off this boat before I get the owner to put you in charge!”
I smiled. “Mr. Hennessy, can’t I have an admirer in the shipping lanes? This gentleman simply wanted to shake my hand because he has all my records. Don’t be angry with him, or you’ll leave me with no public to sing to!”
My friend from the puffer, who probably could not tell the difference between Beatrice di Tenda and the Fairy Queen from
Iolanthe
, looked surprised, but said nothing except, “Well, I’ll have to be getting back.”
“I beg your pardon,” began Stanley Hennessy, a little less heated, but I was already suggesting kindly to the pufferman that he should call for a beer when Johnson returned. Anything, anything to hear more about Kenneth.
“I’m sorry.” The fellow stared stolidly back. “I’ll have to go, mistress. We’re due out on this tide: we’re in the sea lock as it is, and the boys are waiting.” He must, God save us, be the skipper. Hennessy looked as if he were bolted to the deck: clearly he would not leave while McIver was there. It was hopeless.
“Well, goodbye, Mr…”
“Tom McIver. Just call me Tom.”
“Goodbye, Tom. And thank you. I hope we’ll come across one another again.”
“Oh, aye. Ye don’t have to look far for the
Willa Mavis
… We’ll be at Portree on Saturday,” he said. And, unsmiling, he put on his beret and left.
It was a pleasure, after Tom McIver had gone, to greet Stanley Hennessy and to give him, out of Lenny’s hearing, a sketch of life on the
Dolly
.
He wanted me to dine with him that night but I had, regrettably, a prior engagement with Johnson and Rupert at the hotel. I agreed, instead, to post-dinner liqueurs, if my hosts would permit, on
Symphonetta
alone. He wanted advice on the hanging of my Rhu menu portrait.
To be frank, I had forgotten about that picture of Johnson’s. There was a better one half finished on board. But I agreed. I do not antagonise people like Stanley Hennessy. But I make them pay highly for what they buy.
Dinner was pleasant in the hotel overlooking the islands, with the moon risen, a round pallid primrose over its field of satin and hessian on the dark sea. Within, it was warm and smoky and comfortable, with talk and laughter filling the room. Rupert had not come back and Lenny was busy elsewhere so I dined with Johnson, at a table which was soon pushed against three others to allow the quips to be heard, and explained to me. Crackling with animation, Johnson behaved like a cobalt bomb, and towards the end did a small character-sketch of Thalberg which had me in tears. Then Michael Twiss joined us.
I knew by his face at once what had happened. There was one thing and one thing only that rejuvenated Michael, despite his copy of Be Young with Yoga, and that was money. The particular sleekness this time, the little, crisp gestures as he joined us were due, I was sure, to the fact that he thought he had separated Kenneth and me.
And so it turned out. A contract—a big contract, the largest even I had ever been offered—to sing
La Gioconda
on Friday at the Colon. Which meant, of course, flying tomorrow from Abbotsinch to London, and to Buenos Aires on Thursday.
“No,” I said. And I thought, it was a strange thing that never, even in my recent career, had I had so many lucrative offers from abroad as I had had now, just before and just after singing in Edinburgh.
Michael smiled and said, “Tina, my dear,” as if reproving a child, “we’ll discuss it later. It will be a beastly wrench for us both, I know,
I drummed my fingers. Rupert or Lenny I did not mind. But I had no desire to be found by Michael in conference with this man.
It was too late. The seaman had actually drawn breath to answer when the footsteps halted on the quay above
Dolly
and a loud, commanding, and familiar voice demanded, “And who the hell may you be, bothering Madame Rossi? Get off this boat before I get the owner to put you in charge!”
I smiled. “Mr. Hennessy, can’t I have an admirer in the shipping lanes? This gentleman simply wanted to shake my hand because he has all my records. Don’t be angry with him, or you’ll leave me with no public to sing to!”
My friend from the puffer, who probably could not tell the difference between Beatrice di Tenda and the Fairy Queen from
Iolanthe
, looked surprised, but said nothing except, “Well, I’ll have to be getting back.”
“I beg your pardon,” began Stanley Hennessy, a little less heated, but I was already suggesting kindly to the pufferman that he should call for a beer when Johnson returned. Anything, anything to hear more about Kenneth.
“I’m sorry.” The fellow stared stolidly back. “I’ll have to go, mistress. We’re due out on this tide: we’re in the sea lock as it is, and the boys are waiting.” He must, God save us, be the skipper. Hennessy looked as if he were bolted to the deck: clearly he would not leave while McIver was there. It was hopeless.
“Well, goodbye, Mr…”
“Tom McIver. Just call me Tom.”
“Goodbye, Tom. And thank you. I hope we’ll come across one another again.”
“Oh, aye. Ye don’t have to look far for the
Willa Mavis
… We’ll be at Portree on Saturday,” he said. And, unsmiling, he put on his beret and left.
It was a pleasure, after Tom McIver had gone, to greet Stanley Hennessy and to give him, out of Lenny’s hearing, a sketch of life on the
Dolly
.
He wanted me to dine with him that night but I had, regrettably, a prior engagement with Johnson and Rupert at the hotel. I agreed, instead, to post-dinner liqueurs, if my hosts would permit, on
Symphonetta
alone. He wanted advice on the hanging of my Rhu menu portrait.
To be frank, I had forgotten about that picture of Johnson’s. There was a better one half finished on board. But I agreed. I do not antagonise people like Stanley Hennessy. But I make them pay highly for what they buy.
Dinner was pleasant in the hotel overlooking the islands, with the moon risen, a round pallid primrose over its field of satin and hessian on the dark sea. Within, it was warm and smoky and comfortable, with talk and laughter filling the room. Rupert had not come back and Lenny was busy elsewhere so I dined with Johnson, at a table which was soon pushed against three others to allow the quips to be heard, and explained to me. Crackling with animation, Johnson behaved like a cobalt bomb, and towards the end did a small character-sketch of Thalberg which had me in tears. Then Michael Twiss joined us.
I knew by his face at once what had happened. There was one thing and one thing only that rejuvenated Michael, despite his copy of Be Young with Yoga, and that was money. The particular sleekness this time, the little, crisp gestures as he joined us were due, I was sure, to the fact that he thought he had separated Kenneth and me.
And so it turned out. A contract—a big contract, the largest even I had ever been offered—to sing
La Gioconda
on Friday at the Colon. Which meant, of course, flying tomorrow from Abbotsinch to London, and to Buenos Aires on Thursday.
“No,” I said. And I thought, it was a strange thing that never, even in my recent career, had I had so many lucrative offers from abroad as I had had now, just before and just after singing in Edinburgh.
Michael smiled and said, “Tina, my dear,” as if reproving a child, “we’ll discuss it later. It will be a beastly wrench for us both, I know,
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