absurdly high and thready.
‘You must have heard what they say about him,’ replied Will, who prided himself on being the authority on everything from Haydn’s use of Croatian folk music to the leisurely repentance of some of themore unfortunately married Academy professors. ‘He’s always knocking about with Tippett, Britten and Pears; spends his weekends down at that house—Long Crickey or something—with those critics Eddie Sackville-West and Desmond Shawe-Taylor.’
‘Donald says he saw him out trolling the other night,’ Arthur added.
‘How do you mean?’ I asked, somewhat accusingly. Not that I believed what I was hearing for a minute, but I was riled by the suggestion that Arthur and Will might know more about Noël’s life than I did.
‘Donald was walking home along Charlotte Street at about ten o’clock and there was this young chap standing out the front of the Fitzroy Tavern, you know, as if he was waiting for someone, and then next thing out steps Mewton-Wood, and the two of them walked off together towards Regent’s Park!’ Will raised his eyebrows and nodded, proud as punch.
‘When was this?’ My face was heating up.
‘Just the other night.’
‘Well, it could have been a mistake. It must have been dark—he could have been a friend…’
‘Hey, I’ve got a good one for you—where do you find Peter Pears in Groves Dictionary?’ Will asked, grinning.
‘I-I don’t know, I suppose—’
‘Just look under Benjamin Britten!’ And the two of them doubled over with laughter.
‘What have you two got against homosexuals , anyway?’ Stephanie asked, articulating each syllablecarefully as if she were reading out a Latin term of unknown meaning.
‘I haven’t got anything against ho-mo-sex-u-als. My best friend’s one,’ Will laughed, looking at Arthur, to which Arthur responded with a punch to Will’s arm. ‘Quite to the contrary, I wish I were one—I might have some chance of getting published then.’
‘Sorry chaps,’ I interrupted. ‘I don’t think I can join you after all. I’ll see you later. Good luck with your essays.’
I turned around and took the nearest stairway. Hordes of students were heading down for lunch and I found myself carried along in their stream. Floating down, I came face to face with the stone busts on the landing—Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Elgar—retrieved from the Queen’s Hall, which were now mounted just beyond the foyer where they met all entrants to the Academy. I stood for a moment, eyeballing their impenetrable stares; it seemed impossible to slip past them unnoticed.
I wanted to run but it was as if these cold, grey faces were interrogating me. I closed my eyes and all of a sudden I saw myself back at the Queen’s Hall ruins, walking up Langham Street on that Sunday morning in May 1941, the day after the Luftwaffe’s final fling.
We had spent that night hiding like mice while the sky was torn open by a harrowing roar, followed by the familiar sound of our city being destroyed. The next morning a dewy calm had spread over the smoking,rubble-strewn streets. My father told me to fetch my coat then walked with me to the bus.
We didn’t speak as we made our way up from Oxford Circus, bowing our heads in the drizzle that had just started to fall. It had been a little over a year since Noël’s debut concert at the Queen’s Hall, yet in my mind the night had taken on such mythical proportions that those Venetian red seats had become plush velvet thrones, and the golden organ pipes reached miles up into the sky.
With my father walking silently by my side I looked westward along Langham Street and noticed that something was grossly different. A slice of the world had been removed, but it was too extraordinary to say precisely what it was. I kept staring towards where the crowd was gathered, towards where the Queen’s Hall had once stood, and then I noticed it: a great stretch of smoke-filled sky where before there’d been
‘You must have heard what they say about him,’ replied Will, who prided himself on being the authority on everything from Haydn’s use of Croatian folk music to the leisurely repentance of some of themore unfortunately married Academy professors. ‘He’s always knocking about with Tippett, Britten and Pears; spends his weekends down at that house—Long Crickey or something—with those critics Eddie Sackville-West and Desmond Shawe-Taylor.’
‘Donald says he saw him out trolling the other night,’ Arthur added.
‘How do you mean?’ I asked, somewhat accusingly. Not that I believed what I was hearing for a minute, but I was riled by the suggestion that Arthur and Will might know more about Noël’s life than I did.
‘Donald was walking home along Charlotte Street at about ten o’clock and there was this young chap standing out the front of the Fitzroy Tavern, you know, as if he was waiting for someone, and then next thing out steps Mewton-Wood, and the two of them walked off together towards Regent’s Park!’ Will raised his eyebrows and nodded, proud as punch.
‘When was this?’ My face was heating up.
‘Just the other night.’
‘Well, it could have been a mistake. It must have been dark—he could have been a friend…’
‘Hey, I’ve got a good one for you—where do you find Peter Pears in Groves Dictionary?’ Will asked, grinning.
‘I-I don’t know, I suppose—’
‘Just look under Benjamin Britten!’ And the two of them doubled over with laughter.
‘What have you two got against homosexuals , anyway?’ Stephanie asked, articulating each syllablecarefully as if she were reading out a Latin term of unknown meaning.
‘I haven’t got anything against ho-mo-sex-u-als. My best friend’s one,’ Will laughed, looking at Arthur, to which Arthur responded with a punch to Will’s arm. ‘Quite to the contrary, I wish I were one—I might have some chance of getting published then.’
‘Sorry chaps,’ I interrupted. ‘I don’t think I can join you after all. I’ll see you later. Good luck with your essays.’
I turned around and took the nearest stairway. Hordes of students were heading down for lunch and I found myself carried along in their stream. Floating down, I came face to face with the stone busts on the landing—Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Elgar—retrieved from the Queen’s Hall, which were now mounted just beyond the foyer where they met all entrants to the Academy. I stood for a moment, eyeballing their impenetrable stares; it seemed impossible to slip past them unnoticed.
I wanted to run but it was as if these cold, grey faces were interrogating me. I closed my eyes and all of a sudden I saw myself back at the Queen’s Hall ruins, walking up Langham Street on that Sunday morning in May 1941, the day after the Luftwaffe’s final fling.
We had spent that night hiding like mice while the sky was torn open by a harrowing roar, followed by the familiar sound of our city being destroyed. The next morning a dewy calm had spread over the smoking,rubble-strewn streets. My father told me to fetch my coat then walked with me to the bus.
We didn’t speak as we made our way up from Oxford Circus, bowing our heads in the drizzle that had just started to fall. It had been a little over a year since Noël’s debut concert at the Queen’s Hall, yet in my mind the night had taken on such mythical proportions that those Venetian red seats had become plush velvet thrones, and the golden organ pipes reached miles up into the sky.
With my father walking silently by my side I looked westward along Langham Street and noticed that something was grossly different. A slice of the world had been removed, but it was too extraordinary to say precisely what it was. I kept staring towards where the crowd was gathered, towards where the Queen’s Hall had once stood, and then I noticed it: a great stretch of smoke-filled sky where before there’d been
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