Valley of Decision by Stanley Middleton

mother.’
    She liked the people they had met in the States; there was plenty going on; the cultural spectrum was very much broader. She admitted the low standards of television and journalism, but said their best people were better than England’s, even James thought so. ‘There are signs of life.’
    â€˜Are you serious?’ David asked.
    Anna nodded her head, thoughts elsewhere. He found no comfort in her silence, but she brightened again, signalled the change by tapping with her nails on the arm of the chair.
    â€˜My proposition, now,’ she began.
    She had been talking to Frederick Payne, the leader of the Trent Quartet, a friend and protégé of her husband’s. The Trent had been doing particularly well, with plenty of engagements, had begun to attract notice in the right places when Jonathan Mahon, their cellist, had applied for a job in Australia, his wife’s country. This was not, Anna said, altogether a tragedy in that they were not satisfied with Mahon’s attitude; he was too casual by half. Quite likely they would have turned him out, and his replacement, Robert Knight, had already been chosen. James had fixed Knight up with a job as a peripatetic string teacher, but he could not start until September. That left the quartet with a dozen concerts to cancel. Worse, they had been considering turning professional in a year’s time, and this would now have to be put back if not altogether abandoned.
    â€˜Why is there so little notice?’ he asked.
    â€˜Wheels within wheels. Jon has been secretive about his new job; he just sprang it on them. They’ve not been hitting it off, and he thought he owed them nothing.’
    â€˜Rightly?’
    â€˜Probably. But they’re in serious trouble. They’ve been looking around. And James has. Things didn’t work out. Yours was the only serious name to come up locally. Jim said I knew you better than he did, and Freddy got on to me to ask you.’
    â€˜Why didn’t he ask me himself?’
    â€˜You’re a bit of a nob, you know. Cambridge and high school. And your father’s who he is.’
    â€˜If they were in such dire straits, they’d ring me if I was Gregor Piatigorsky.’
    â€˜I don’t know about that. It’s just a stand-in. You’ll be dropped in the summer. And it’ll mean one hell of a lot of hard graft.’
    â€˜Why me?’ David asked.
    â€˜Fred says you’re a good enough player and a good musician. You might have some ideas while you’re with ’em. If they can’t get you they’ll have to bring a scratch player up from London or the College or the Academy for concerts, and that’s goodbye to continuity or practice. And expensive.’
    â€˜Supposing I’m not up to standard? I’ve hardly done any chamber music since I’ve been up here.’
    â€˜Never crossed anybody’s mind. But then it’ll be the substitute players. Nothing else for it. What do you say now?’ She waited equably. ‘They’re good. You’ll enjoy it.’
    â€˜I’m not so sure of that. When do they practise?’
    â€˜Tuesdays, Thursdays, though they’ll change that to suit you. The concerts are all Saturdays and Sundays except one, that’s a Wednesday, I think. If they’re not giving a concert, they rehearse Sunday mornings as well.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜At Cyril Barton’s. But they’ll come here, if that’s any easier. I’ve brought a list, a programme and Jon’s scores. They’ll simplify programmes, not play so much, I mean, if you want that. Shall I fetch the music in? It’s in the car.’
    He said nothing; he wanted to be left alone. She seemed in no hurry.
    â€˜Shall I?’
    â€˜You just hold your horses. I shall have to think about this.’
    â€˜Go on, then.’
    â€˜Why can’t this Knight man come up for the concerts?’
    â€˜He’s