The child’s eyes went rounded, her mouth fell open. ‘Baa baa – baa baa.’
I laughed. ‘Clever girl, Betsy – that’s right. Can you sing it?’
She took a deep breath and as I slowly played began: ‘Baa, baa, black sheep, ’ave you any wool? ’Ess, sir, ’ess sir’ I saw her groping for the words and I picked up the tune and helped her continue: ‘Three bags full.’ Then together we sang on to the end: ‘One for the master, and one for the dame, And one for the little boy that cries down the lane!’
Her voice rose in a shriek of delight: ‘Again! Again!’
So I played it again, and when we had ured of the black sheep we sang of little Miss Muffett, frightened by the spider – Betsy screeched in a truly blood-curdling fashion at the end – then we sang for our supper with little Tommy Tucker and popped with the weasel before moving on to the horrifying tale of the three blind mice. I taught Betsy to sing ‘Ring a Ring of Roses’ and she flung herself to the floor at the final: ‘And they all fall down’ – and then it was lunchtime.
We all ate together in the kitchen and then Mary went home to see how Jim was. She took a protesting Betsy with her – ‘Mrs Walsh said she’d take her after dinner.’ I opened my mouth to offer but Mary silenced me: ‘No, Lady Helena – you mun rest, you only went out first time yesterday – Ben’d never forgive me if you tired yourself out.’
But I did not feel so very tired, though I went back into the parlour and put my feet up obediently. My eyes kept returning to the piano – Mary would be back soon – I jumped up and ran over to it in a guilty rush. As soon as I was sitting down I began to play my scale – raising my voice and singing. But when I reached G I knew I was forcing, and on top A I cracked. I breathed in and tried again – the same thing happened. I made myself wait five full minutes by the clock, then began the scale a third time but it was no use; I did manage top A but it was only with the greatest of effort – and it was not true.
I went back and lay down on the sofa. I, I who had soared effortlessly to high C, who with careful training and practice had learned to go easily beyond – I could no longer reach the high notes; I was only fit to sing nursery rhymes to children. I cried a little, then fell asleep.
Ben came home at teatime. Through the half-open door I heard Mary talking to him in the kitchen. ‘Lady Helena’s been up street – and I hope she hasn’t overtired herself – I brought Betsy with me this morning and my lady were right good with her. Betsy were thrilled because my lady played pianner to her and sang with her for hours.’
I heard Ben’s sharp question: ‘She sang – Helena sang?’
Mary said apologetically, ‘Betsy didn’t know all words of nursery rhymes, you see – but Lady Helena’s been asleep most of the afternoon – so mebbe Betsy were too much for her she is for most folks, I reckon.’ She sighed.
As soon as Mary had left Ben came through to me. His voice was elaborately casual as he said, ‘Mary says you’ve been singing with the youngster.’
There was no point in pretence. I shook my head. ‘It’s no use, Ben – after she’d gone I tried to sing my scales – my usual scales – and I can’t reach the top notes any more. It hasn’t come back.’
‘But mebbe with time…’
‘No Ben – I know my own voice, and it’s changed, I can hear it. The capacity just isn’t there any more.’
He moved restlessly around the room. ‘What about that singing teacher – the one you used to go to in Manchester – I remember the Captain telling me when I went to see him – couldn’t she help?’
‘Madame Goldman can only train a voice – she can’t create one that isn’t there.’
‘But it’s half there, lass.’
‘Ben – I can see line after line of music in my mind’s eye – and every time the notes rise… I would be dumb. You can’t half sing songs.’
‘No, no – happen not.’ He drew in a breath and said, ‘I’m glad you went out for a walk today, lass – but don’t over-do it, will you?’
The next day I asked for Betsy again, and we went a little further; her four-year-old legs and my rusty ones moved at the same pace. Neighbours stopped and spoke to us both in the streets and gradually, by listening to the child, my ears picked up the pattern and rhythm of their speech and I no longer had to strain to understand.
We ventured further afield each day, and on the Friday we came to the corner of Clegg Street. Betsy began to lead me up it – I hesitated but she tugged at my hand so I followed slowly behind her. We had just passed No. 6 when the door opened and Mrs Greenhalgh came out to stand on her snowy step. ‘My lady –’ Reluctantly I pulled Betsy round; Mrs Greenhalgh advanced. ‘My lady, I’m glad to see you on your feet again – we heard you’d been poorly.’ Her face was stern, but not unkind.
‘Thank you, Mrs Greenhalgh – thank you.’ Then I plunged on, ‘And Emmie – how is Emmie?’
She permitted herself the indulgence of a small smile. ‘She’s very well, my lady – courting steady now. A decent young lad, she met him through chapel choir – he’d not long moved to Ainsclough. He works in District Bank – a nice steady job, with prospects.’
‘I am so glad – Emmie is such a sweet girl.’
Mrs Greenhalgh inclined her head. ‘Other than a touch of flightiness I’ve not got any serious complaints about her – I will say that, my lady, though she is my own daughter. And she’ll settle down once she’s wed, women have to.’ Her eyes held mine a moment, and I felt my cheeks go red. ‘And young Alfred’ll have no cause to complain of her cooking, and that’s what matters most to a man, I always say. Of course, wedding’ll not be for a year or two yet, they’ll have to have a bit put by – but there’s no harm in waiting. He comes round every Wednesday and Saturday evening regular, and we all have a bite to eat and a little chat together. I’ve got one o’ teachers from infants’ school lodging in Ben’s old room now – a very nice lady, close to meself in age, and between us we keep an eye on the youngsters.’
‘Please do give Emmie my very best wishes.’
‘I will, my lady – I will.’ As Betsy tugged impatiently at my hand Mrs Greenhalgh fired her parting salvo: ‘And it’s such a comfort to me that he’s a regular attender at chapel – twice every Sunday without fail – and a nice clean job, too – no coming home covered with muck and leaving dirty overalls to be washed.’
And now I smiled properly. ‘You’re so right, Mrs Greenhalgh, so right. Come along Betsy, your mother will be wondering where we’ve got to. Goodbye, Mrs Greenhalgh.’ I let Betsy haul me away – then I thought of poor Emmie and her Alfred, so securely chaperoned by Mrs Greenhalgh and the ‘very nice lady’ who taught at the infants’ school, and began to giggle.
I told Ben all she had said when he came in that evening and we laughed together. ‘I hope that Alfred’s got a bit o’ spunk in him – else he’ll find he’s married her mother more than Emmie – she’ll run their lives for them, given half a chance – or less,’ he added thoughtfully. He glanced at me. ‘I’ll say this for your ma, she’s said some harsh things to me in her time, especially when you were ill – but she’s never interfered since you came back here.’
‘She hasn’t the time, Ben – she’s too busy leading her own life.’
He started to chuckle. ‘Aye – an’ it’s sort o’ life Mrs Greenhalgh doesn’t know exists this side of hell!’
‘Ben!’
‘It’s true, lass – painting, drinking, smoking – and running around with other men – you didn’t bring your ma up right at all!’ He was still chuckling as he took the plates out to the scullery.
I was getting stronger every day now, and I was able to help Mary with the odd task around the house; but I was careful never to do too much – she was so anxious to earn her wages – and I still tired easily. Ben watched me closely, and sent me to lie down if he thought I was looking pale; I told him I had always been pale, but he took no notice and shooed me off regardless – and I knew he was right.
One eveni
ng he stayed in the kitchen, and when I went to look for him he was writing a letter. He pushed the blotting paper over the sheet. ‘Won’t be a minute, lass – you go back in parlour.’ I was a little curious but he sat waiting for me to go, so I went.
Later, as we sat either side of the fire, I asked casually, ‘Were you writing a letter, Ben?’
‘Aye, that’s right.’ He turned a page of the newspaper and shook his head. ‘I’m having me doubts about Mr Lloyd George – I thought he’d be a better bet ’an a Tory prime minister, but now I’m not so sure there’s anything to choose between them. What do you think, lass?’
‘I think you voted Labour in the last election anyway, Ben Holden.’
He grinned at me. ‘Happen I did – but you won’t know, sweetheart, will you? Seeing as ballot box is secret – like post box.’
I bent my warm cheeks over the sock I was darning.
He was on early all that week; I would listen drowsily to the banging of the knocker-up and Ben’s answering shout, and then fall asleep again after I had heard him creep down the stairs. As soon as he arrived home on Friday he said, ‘Lass – I fancy a trip to Manchester – are you coming with me?’ Manchester! It seemed a very long way away. ‘Course you’re coming with me. Fetch your hat and coat and we’ll leave Mary in peace.’
It was exciting to sit on a train again, but Manchester seemed so big and gloomy after Ainsclough, and I clutched Ben’s arm as we headed through the traffic towards the trams.
It was only as he helped me out of the tram that I realized where he was taking me. I shrank back. ‘No, Ben –’
He hauled me forward. ‘No use arguing, lass – just do as you’re told.’ He was every inch a sergeant-major this afternoon.
Madame Goldman was alone; smilingly she took my hand. ‘I am so glad to see you my dear – I heard that you had been ill. Sit down and rest a little before we begin.’
I shook my head. ‘No, Madame – it’s no use – I only have half a voice…’
‘Then I shall listen to your half voice.’ She smiled like a cat as she sat down at the piano.
I sang my scale, badly – and cracked on A. I sang it again, a little better, but A was difficult for me. Madame was imperturbable. ‘We will try another scale.’ Her fingers rippled over the keys. ‘This too was a scale of yours.’ I sang that scale, all of it. ‘Good – now once more.’ I sang again, and she turned to me and smiled.
‘Madame – It’s no use; I am a soprano, that was not a soprano’s scale.’
Ben broke in. ‘What about her high notes? She keeps on about them.’ He had asked what I had not dared to.
Madame Goldman pursed her lips. ‘With care we might make you safe on A – even perhaps B – but not often, and not for long, I think.’
I felt my eyes fill with tears. She swung round on her stool and took both my hands in hers. ‘Lady Helena, God gave you your high notes – and God has taken them away.’ The bitterness of loss swept over me, but she was still speaking: ‘However, Elsa Gehring gave you your low notes, and those you still have. You will sing again, my dear, but you will sing mezzo.’
‘But – but I’m not…’
She waved me to silence. ‘How wise Elsa was! I must admit at the time I thought her work on your lower register unnecessary – although I encouraged you to practise it – but I thought there had been no need to extend your range since all young girls wish to sing soprano –’ She shrugged, smiling. ‘But Elsa was wiser than I. I will write to her this evening – she always inquires of you – and I shall tell her that her work has endured longer than God’s, that will please her. She thinks already that she is cleverer than God – but she will like to be told it!’ Madame Goldman laughed, then became brisk. ‘How often can you come to Manchester each week, Lady Helena? We have a lot of work to do, you and I.’
Ben butted in. ‘She can come as often as she’s fit to, ma’am. We’ve got a good woman in to see to shopping and cleaning and suchlike. Helena’s only got to catch train.’
I was still uncertain, still protesting a little on the way back, but Ben would have none of it. ‘Just think of all those priv. tickets you’re going to use, lass – reckon it’s time we got summat back from company!’ He winked at me and squeezed my hand.
We did work hard. I was using my chest notes more now, and had to strengthen them and my middle register. It seemed very odd at first – I had always sung higher – and yet, because I had trusted Elsa Gehring I had regularly practised the lower notes as well as the middle and upper. But it was a shock when Madame Goldman gave me Mendelssohn’s aria from St Paul to prepare: ‘But the Lord is mindful of his own’. ‘Colour, Lady Helena, colour – darken your voice – you are still thinking like a soprano! You are not a choirboy any longer, you are a woman, so you must sing like a woman.’ And slowly, gradually, more confidently, I did.
I sent for my music from Hatton and began the long task of transposing. I knew I did not need to – I had been able to transpose on sight since before I had first gone to Munich – but I wanted to make a completely fresh start. My high bell-like voice had gone – it was buried in the grave with my brothers – I did not want any reminders of it. Madame was right – I was not a choirboy any longer, I was a woman who had loved and lost and lost a second time – and who now must come to terms with her loss and live again. So Ben would carry a small table to the sofa and I would sit at it with my pen and rewrite line after line.
Ben asked once, ‘Couldn’t you just buy new music, like?’
I flexed my cramped fingers and looked down at the opening bars of Frauen Liebe und Leben, then smiled up at him. ‘Most of my songs are by German composers, Ben – they might not be so easy to buy in England today. Besides, I must make a fresh start.’
He bent back over his book and I took up my pen once more. I had accepted my new voice now; the fight high notes had been like those of a young boy – they had drawn Gerald to me against his instincts – just as my body had been a boy’s body, slim and spare of flesh. I had lost my babies but my breasts remained a little fuller, my bottom was rounder – I put my hand up and touched the swelling curve of my bosom – then glanced up to see Ben’s eyes fixed on me. I felt my face crimson and blurted out, without thinking, ‘I’m getting fat, Ben.’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘No – you’ll never be that. But you have fleshed out like, since we were wed.’ His eyes narrowed a little. ‘I seen it afore in lasses – being with a man seems to – well, develop them like. I noticed it in you, even after a week or two.’
His face was redder now; he was watching me intently. ‘Ben.’ I held out my hand, uncertainly, nervously; he began to move out of his chair.
Then he sank back again. ‘Nay, lass – you’re not ready for it yet, so I’d best not touch you at present. Talking like that, and looking at you – it’s got me a bit excited.’ Then he smiled gently. ‘I’ll settle down in a minute if I just sit quietly with me book. Then I’ll give you a goodnight kiss.’
He found his place again and I picked up my pen. There had been no answering call in my belly – and yet – I had liked to see his eyes on my breasts and to know that they had pleased him.
Chapter Four
The parlour became my music room now, my work room. I played the piano for hours every day while Ben was at work, and my fingers gradually regained their suppleness.
Madame Goldman set me several simple English songs to learn with my new voice. I studied them carefully before beginning to practise them, phrase by phrase. One morning Ben was still at home – he was on the late shift that day – and he slipped in and sat listening to me. When I had sung the whole song through and closed the piano he said, ‘Lass – I never understood before – I always thought you just sang natural like – that you opened your mouth and out it came. But seeing you over these last few weeks it seems to me it’s a job of work to you same way firing and driving is to me. You pore over notes and practise them and keep worrying away at it until it’s exactly
right – you must’ve spent years and years learning your music, way you handle that piano – but you’re still not satisfied until it’s just how you think it should be. And you’ve been so much happier since you’ve been doing it – I reckon you need to do it – it’s part of you.’ And as he spoke I knew he was right: since I had lost my voice there had been a void in my life and only now was that void being filled. Dearest Elsa – I would write to her tonight. But still there was that sense of loss and I said to Ben, ‘But I’ll never sing as I once did, never.’
He came and stood close to me. ‘Lass, don’t regret them high notes – they were beautiful and I’m glad I heard you sing them – but your voice these days’ he paused, groping for the right words – ‘it’s warmer and fuller – it’s like your body is now.’ Then he added, in a rush, ‘It’s more womanly – and when you sing I see you sometimes as you used to look in th’ospital, bending over Young Lennie or one of t’others who were in pain – with your face all soft and gentle’ – he turned away from me – ‘like you did to me, too. I mun be going.’ He kissed me quickly and left hastily, his face brick-red.
I ran to the window and lifted the corner of the curtain, watching him stride across the street. When he was out of sight I returned to the piano and opening it again began to sing: ‘Du bist die Ruh, Der Friede mild’ – you are rest, and gentle peace. And I did not know whether I sang of my music – or of him.
Ben began to work on his plot again; sometimes I went up there and sat watching him dig. He was behind with his preparations, because he had had no time for digging in the autumn, but he never reproached me. One Sunday, Fanny’s three children came to see us on their own: their father put them on the train at Blackburn and then Ben and I went down to meet them at Ainsclough; young Benjamin chivvied his charges out of the compartment: ‘Edie – help me lift Baby’ – he was very much the older brother – then he saw Ben and his face lit up in a beaming smile. ‘I brought them, Uncle Ben – all way fra’ Blackburn!’