Valley of Decision by Stanley Middleton Page A

busy, and he lives too far away. He’s somewhere in Scotland. He’s said to be outstandingly good.’
    â€˜Where’s he from?’
    â€˜He’s Scottish, but he was at the Royal Northern with Fred. Won no end of prizes.’
    â€˜But hasn’t got anywhere?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t say that.’ She stopped him with a finger. ‘They genuinely look forward to his coming, but they dread it. He’s a terror, and they think they might have got slack while Mahon messed them about.’
    â€˜Have they?’
    â€˜I doubt it, but that’s why they don’t want ad hoc performances. They need three hard sessions a week. Another thing, Fred thinks you’ll be good for them. You’re not just a scraper. You’ve had professional teaching, but you’re a musician, a cultured man. You’ll keep ’em on their toes.’
    â€˜Counting my wrong notes.’
    â€˜No, David,’ Anna said. ‘It might sound flattering, but it’s somewhere near the truth.’
    â€˜What’s in all this for you?’ he asked.
    â€˜I like to throw my weight about. Two, I’m interested in them. I’m quite interested in you, believe it or not. I’d like to see if they can make a go of it full time. It’s likely, even in these hard days. Jim thinks so. And here you are, with a big gap in your life at the right moment, and plenty to offer. It’s what you need.’
    â€˜I’ve hardly time to turn round now.’
    â€˜That’s the sort of man to ask, I think.’
    They sat silently; she knew when she had said enough.
    â€˜It’s tempting,’ he said. ‘Let’s look at your list and see if there are any immovable clashes with the dates in my diary.’
    â€˜Good.’ She sipped, rose slowly. He let her out of the front door, where he waited. She returned with a battered music case, the leather scarred, one strap broken so that the metal bar dangled loose. ‘Here you are.’
    The first two concerts were strictly classical, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, he’d played them at some time, but then Debussy, Bartok, Shostakovich, Britten.
    â€˜No Elliott Carter,’ he said. He sat silently again, picking at his chin. ‘I’d like to have a rehearsal with them, and see then what I think about it.’
    â€˜That’s what I would have suggested. How about Tuesday?’
    â€˜Right. They realize I shan’t have had any practice?’
    â€˜I expect so.’ She straightened up. ‘That’s it, then. You’ll go to Cy Barton’s, will you? His address is on the programme.’
    â€˜Cup of coffee?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes, that’ll be great. I can’t tell you how pleased I am, David. You’ll be good for them.’
    â€˜I’m not so sure.’
    â€˜If they’re going professional, they’ve got to offer something out of the ordinary. You can help.’
    As they drank their coffee he felt lassitude as if he’d been out walking all day, but at the same time a certain satisfaction in that he was about to parallel Mary’s venture in New York. He’d have to abandon serious schoolmastering for a few weeks, as she’d abandoned husband, home, country, but now he fiercely wanted to do it. If he could come up to scratch, so could his wife. Superstitiously he felt he helped her by taking on this burden.
    Anna was chattering; he barely listened. She refused more coffee, said she must go.
    â€˜Will James be home?’
    â€˜He was there when I came out.’
    â€˜Doing what?’
    â€˜Reading something. Planning something. Drinking. He’ll be pleased you’ve decided as you have.’
    She kissed him, and made off into the night.

7
    ON THE MORNING of David’s first rehearsal with the Trent Quartet, he received a letter from Mary, as did his mother.
    The letters, identical in content, varied in tone. Rehearsals were long and tiring; the