glittering cities, they would be listening to this music too, it would be a part of the fabric of their lives. And he realized that he would leave this place soon and he would go out into the world and he would be a part of it all. Maybe it occurred to him then that he would never come back.
“The Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves” it was, that first piece of music. He recognized it when he heard it again years later. And every time he has heard it since, it’s as if he’s back in that cold bedroom in that cold house, the richness of the world revealing itself to him for the first time.
It should have been the start of a great journey. It should have been the beginning of a lifelong love affair with music. He should have made it his business to go to La Scala, to Covent Garden. He should have gone to Verona. He could have been a regular at Wexford. By now he would have explored all the great recordings, he would have been qualified to say who was the greatest Norma, who was his favorite Madame Butterfly.
Instead of which he’s still back where he started, with the Great Opera Choruses collection. Well, so be it, he would listen to the slaves’ chorus again and to hell with being an opera buff. The slaves’ chorus never failed to lift his spirits.
He swept the disc over to the edge of the cabinet with his sleeve, then picked it up with the tips of his fingers. Slowly, he bent from the knees until he was down on his hunkers, his back creaking as he went. Then he dropped the disc into the open tray. It fell perfectly into place and he grunted with satisfaction. With his middle finger, he nudged the button to close the tray, then he hit play.
He got to his feet with the feeling of a job well done. The first strains of music filled the room and he was flooded with hope again.
Only a matter of weeks before his casts would be off. Then he would be fit to fight the case, and there was no reason on this earth why he couldn’t win. He would be vindicated, he would see out his career on a high note. He might even do some teaching again. You can’t beat experience, at the end of the day it’s experience that matters.
He could still go to La Scala, if he wanted to, there was nothing stopping him. He would take Addie with him. He would treat her, they could make a weekend of it. He felt buoyant. There was life in him yet, he could see that now.
There was life in him yet.
Chapter 11
D ELLA ANSWERED THE DOOR in evening dress. A full-length black satin gown with short scalloped sleeves and a deep scoop neckline. She had no makeup on and her feet were bare.
Addie’s heart sank when she saw her.
“Are you getting ready to go out?”
“God, no,” said Della, turning and walking back through the hall. “I’m just cleaning out the hot press.” She started up the stairs, the train of her dress slithering after her.
Addie traipsed up in her wake. Lola was too polite to follow. She stood watching them from the hall, her tail wagging slowly. Then she flopped down onto the tiles, her chin resting on her front paws, her eyes fixed on the stairs.
The landing was scattered with storage boxes and canvas bags.
“Sit there and talk to me while I’m doing this,” said Della. “I’ve started so I have to finish.”
Addie selected a clear space against the wall. She sat down on the carpet, her knees pulled up to her chest, her back resting against the scalding radiator.
Della was climbing up onto a shelf inside the press. She yanked the hem of her dress out of the way with one hand as she climbed.
“I’m looking for the ski gear,” she shouted. “Can’t remember where I would have put it, but it must be up here somewhere.”
A child’s slipper came flying out and landed on the ground beside Addie.
“The things you find!”
There were terrible noises coming from one of the upstairs bedrooms. The sound of a large number of little girls making a horrible mess. Screeching sounds and thumping and a general
“The Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves” it was, that first piece of music. He recognized it when he heard it again years later. And every time he has heard it since, it’s as if he’s back in that cold bedroom in that cold house, the richness of the world revealing itself to him for the first time.
It should have been the start of a great journey. It should have been the beginning of a lifelong love affair with music. He should have made it his business to go to La Scala, to Covent Garden. He should have gone to Verona. He could have been a regular at Wexford. By now he would have explored all the great recordings, he would have been qualified to say who was the greatest Norma, who was his favorite Madame Butterfly.
Instead of which he’s still back where he started, with the Great Opera Choruses collection. Well, so be it, he would listen to the slaves’ chorus again and to hell with being an opera buff. The slaves’ chorus never failed to lift his spirits.
He swept the disc over to the edge of the cabinet with his sleeve, then picked it up with the tips of his fingers. Slowly, he bent from the knees until he was down on his hunkers, his back creaking as he went. Then he dropped the disc into the open tray. It fell perfectly into place and he grunted with satisfaction. With his middle finger, he nudged the button to close the tray, then he hit play.
He got to his feet with the feeling of a job well done. The first strains of music filled the room and he was flooded with hope again.
Only a matter of weeks before his casts would be off. Then he would be fit to fight the case, and there was no reason on this earth why he couldn’t win. He would be vindicated, he would see out his career on a high note. He might even do some teaching again. You can’t beat experience, at the end of the day it’s experience that matters.
He could still go to La Scala, if he wanted to, there was nothing stopping him. He would take Addie with him. He would treat her, they could make a weekend of it. He felt buoyant. There was life in him yet, he could see that now.
There was life in him yet.
Chapter 11
D ELLA ANSWERED THE DOOR in evening dress. A full-length black satin gown with short scalloped sleeves and a deep scoop neckline. She had no makeup on and her feet were bare.
Addie’s heart sank when she saw her.
“Are you getting ready to go out?”
“God, no,” said Della, turning and walking back through the hall. “I’m just cleaning out the hot press.” She started up the stairs, the train of her dress slithering after her.
Addie traipsed up in her wake. Lola was too polite to follow. She stood watching them from the hall, her tail wagging slowly. Then she flopped down onto the tiles, her chin resting on her front paws, her eyes fixed on the stairs.
The landing was scattered with storage boxes and canvas bags.
“Sit there and talk to me while I’m doing this,” said Della. “I’ve started so I have to finish.”
Addie selected a clear space against the wall. She sat down on the carpet, her knees pulled up to her chest, her back resting against the scalding radiator.
Della was climbing up onto a shelf inside the press. She yanked the hem of her dress out of the way with one hand as she climbed.
“I’m looking for the ski gear,” she shouted. “Can’t remember where I would have put it, but it must be up here somewhere.”
A child’s slipper came flying out and landed on the ground beside Addie.
“The things you find!”
There were terrible noises coming from one of the upstairs bedrooms. The sound of a large number of little girls making a horrible mess. Screeching sounds and thumping and a general
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