Writing for Fun
September 2019
Crusade - Jeff Kebbell
Music alone shall live, Music alone shall live
Music alone shall live, never to die’
There’s music everywhere, if we have the ears to hear it. Each morning I get up about 6.30 am to let my dogs into the garden for any early morning tiddle. Whatever the weather there are birds, some in next door’s shrubbery, mainly sparrows, a robin and the ubiquitous pigeons, cooing and ever courting in a low voice. A walk to the beach with the tide in would bring the music of waves splashing against the foreshore, playing its soothing repetitive song. There is music everywhere.
‘Livings’, that’s me, ‘you’re joining the Tottenham Municipal Orchestra, rehearsal Thursday so you and Viner don’t be late.’ Mr Rokos was my tutor. David Viner went on to be a professional musician with one of the big London orchestras but I didn’t have the interest or ability to try to follow him. At least here was a way for my parents to feel the tuition fees hadn’t been entirely wasted.
Thursday evening, shoes shined, hair watered down, ‘a birch broom having a fit’ was how my father described it and I presented myself at 7pm to the leader of the orchestra and first violinist, Walter Preston.
Walter Preston was a hero of mine. He walked with a sedate step, never hurried, was in charge of the Tottenham Libraries, played a good hand of Canasta and Bridge, had the mysterious letters F.L.A. after his name and drank Madeira with his equally sophisticated wife, Marjorie, and had the occasional Soiree at his elegant house in a better part of Tottenham. Me, clumsy, near the bottom of the class at school and always in trouble there, as well as at church and Scouts, I hoped one day to be like him and not as my despairing father would say ‘Tripped over a matchstick and fell down a wormhole’.
I reported on time - or nearly - to Mr Preston. ‘Ah, hello Joseph, I’ve put you with Albert who will undoubtedly show you the, ahem, ropes! Welcome to our ensemble.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied.
Albert was an elderly man with a twinkle in his eye and the experience of many years of hard work and poverty. ‘Watcha’ he said. ‘I’ll call you Joe. I’m Bert. You sit there on my left and turn the music pages and don’t be late or forget things.’
I sat down and looked around. The members of the orchestra were coming in and finding their seats. There was the murmur of greetings and a rustle of music sheets being put out. Bert was staring round with a keen look. ‘They’re all at it,’ he said. I followed his gaze. At that age I was too naive to know what they might be at. I wouldn’t see anything suspicious happening and made a mental note to find out what he meant later. Mr Rokos, who played his violin on the Third Programme, went through the schedule with us. It was fairly straightforward except for the finale! ‘Oh no,’ came a groan from the back. Ray Walsingham, who took care of the tympani, knew that the last act of Ravel’s Bolero included a loud clash of the cymbals when the lovers jumped into the volcano. It was probably about bar 185 and knowing the sort of poor quality conductors we attracted, that meant Ray had to count the bars and you could see the sweat trickle down his face 106-107-108 as he approached the finale. Sometimes Walter Preston would wave his bow but if he was concentrating he would forget.
Meanwhile other things of interest were pointed out. ‘That’s Mabel, a violin player near me who took her violin out and tuned it carefully, put it on her lap and when the orchestra started to play, fell asleep and took no further part in the proceedings. ‘She’s quite a good player,’ said Bert, ‘but suffers with Narcolepsy.’ The two viola players I could see hiding behind the second violins couldn’t keep their hands off of each other and frequently missed their entries and giggled a lot. Used to strict discipline in my playing, I found this funny and refreshing and looked forward to our opening performance where Bert said the bassoon and contra bassoon players who were always at war would try to outdo each other and hold the notes on too long or drown each other out. A contra bassoon in full flight or volume is an exciting event and can swamp the rest of the brass instruments easily.
Mr Rokos said the chosen conductor was ill and Saturday’s conductor would be Alderman Kay to a chorus of groans. Alderman Kay had little interest in the music and would wave his baton about, acknowledging his friends in the audience. He didn’t like Walter Preston and had no sense of timing and did not come to the Saturday afternoon rehearsal.
With a clean white shirt and Dad’s bow tie I presented myself that evening, was passed by Walter and sat next to Albert who whispered loudly ‘Old Walter’s really pissed off,’ he said. ‘Watch out for fireworks.’
Acknowledging the mild applause Alderman Kay took the stand.
‘Bow to the audience you lot,’ he said and leaning towards Walter he said, ‘And you follow my baton, no swanky stuff of your own.’ I stared open mouthed. Mr Preston’s face did not alter except for his eyes. I’m surprised the conductor didn’t burn up and disappear in a puff of smoke. I would like to explain here that Walter Preston was on a mission, a crusade, if you like, to make the Tottenham Municipal Orchestra well known and respected and he objected to pipsqueaks like Kay bringing it down with bad conducting.
The evening started well. Everyone ignored the conductor and followed Walter and Mozart introduced us to a Minuet. By the time it had finished Kay had realised he was being ignored and the audience had begun to realise as well. The rest of the orchestra was following Walter. Kay turned to him and said, ‘After tonight you won’t lead in any orchestra in this borough ever again.’ He then turned to the audience and introduced Ravel’s Bolero and started the orchestra off. All went well in the beginning then Walter started speeding up and playing forte instead of lento.
Kay tried to calm it down but the damage was done. Thunderous roars from the tuba and trumpet became ear splitting. Ray was beating his drums and cymbals to death. Mabel woke up with a start and started playing the last movement. Kay was banging his table to try and get attention and the trumpets were playing Colonel Bogie.
Suddenly Walter slowed down and we all started playing quietly. The audience’s laughter could be heard and got louder as the tuba player went on to Nelly the Elephant. Free at last, the viola couple were embracing, their instruments on the floor and the bassoon players were making serious efforts to be the loudest and punching one another on the arm.
Alderman Kay started shouting for the orchestra to stop and those of the audience in the cheap seats were singing a rude version of Colonel Bogie. Kay threw the baton at Walter. Fortunately it missed and Walter stood up, the orchestra went quiet and he thanked the audience for their attendance and attention. We all stood up and bowed and the audience cheered and whistled. Kay had left the stage and Walter strode after him.
As we went home later, we received pats on the back and congratulations. Alderman Kay was not a popular councillor and would never get that respect again.
Next Thursday I went back to rehearsals for the next concert.