Writing for Fun
September 2018
The Endless Concert - Anne Wilson
Much to Freddie’s surprise, he found he was enjoying the biography – at least the early stages, which was as far as he had reached. The book had been foisted on him by a well-meaning friend who ‘was sure it would be of interest’ and would not take ‘no’ for an answer: its subject, a renowned concert pianist for many years, having apparently, been born and schooled locally. Thus, Freddie, whose interest in classical music was negligible, found himself wading through a subject for which he had usually no empathy and learning about the life of someone he had barely heard of. Then a sentence caught his eye. The man, who was a couple of years older than he was, had been taught to play the piano by a woman called Margery Willingham. How did he know that name? He put the book down for a moment whilst he racked his brains. Then it came to him. Of course: Margery. His grandfather’s residential home. He shut his eyes and, smiling, recalled his visits all those years ago as a teenager. He was a kind boy and had been fond of his grandfather so, unusually for a boy of his tender years, had needed little prompting to go and see him on a fairly regular basis. Diversions were occasionally provided for the residents to relieve the monotony of their existence and one day he had arrived amidst a flurry of activity. An electronic keyboard had been placed at the far end of the lounge, whilst two carers were in the throes of hastily rearranging the chairs so that they now formed several small rows, each placed one behind the other.
It used to cross his mind as a boy that the most compos mentis of the residents were sometimes the least pleasant and so it was with an officious know-all of a little man with a moustache called Sid, who had doubtless been placed there by exasperated relatives who knew he would exhaust their patience unless he were placed within an environment where he could be overridden and quashed when necessary. Conversely, Freddie warmed towards the dementia-ridden Vera, a gentle, bird-like woman whose clarion call every few minutes to anyone within earshot was: ‘I want to go home. I want to see my parents.’
A couple of the carers used an oft-relayed reasoned approach: ‘How old are you Vera?’ they would ask. To which she would reply that she was eighty-seven. ‘Well then’, they countered. ‘If you’re that age, you know your parents can’t still be at home.’
Freddie was always surprised that this seemingly convoluted explanation always seemed to placate her temporarily – at least until a few moments later.
It was to Sid he addressed his remark about the flurry of excitement.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked him.
‘We’re going to be sung to,’ he replied rolling his eyes.
‘Margery’s coming,’ said one of the carers to Freddie, overhearing the question. ‘She’s a regular guest entertainer’.
‘She’s eighty if she’s a day,’ interjected Sid. ‘She should be in here herself.’
‘I think it’s wonderful she’s still singing at her age,’ defended the carer with little conviction.
‘She shouldn’t be singing at any age,’ retorted Sid. ‘Wake me up when it’s all over.’
An elderly but spry figure with dyed hair and rouged cheeks strode purposefully down the centre of the room. Clutching copious amounts of music, a boy who looked not much older than Freddie staggered in behind her and then seated himself at the keyboard.
Freddie observed that most of the music was frayed at the edges, as was the quivering voice of the singer. Unaware of any deficiency she soldiered on at length, notes spilling out from her lips randomly and missing their intended destination.
‘I’m now going to sing one of my popular show medleys,’ she advised her captive audience after what seemed to Freddie like thirty minutes. A large pile of music still lay in wait ominously on the piano, outweighing completed items dropped on the floor by a relieved pianist. ‘I call it South Pacific Revisited.’
‘I don’t want a re-visit,’ said Sid leaning towards Freddie, making no attempt to speak quietly. ‘I didn’t enjoy it the first time. A medley should mean short extracts, but she sings practically the whole score. Some of it in costume. I feel like going for a lie down.’
Freddie caught the eye of his grandfather, who winked at him knowingly. Being young and totally immersed in the pop music of the day, he knew nothing about the show and was surprised when Margery produced a voluminous carrier bag, seemingly out of nowhere, into which she rummaged and, with a triumphant flourish, unearthed a grass skirt. Fastening it to cover the bottom half of her dress the exotic image it intended to convey was at odds with its rouge-cheeked, elderly wearer. Her hips started to swivel stiffly in time to a song he hadn’t heard before called ‘Bali Ha’i’ but he listened attentively to the lyrics. Freddie privately doubted whether many lonely sailors in the prime of life would be availing themselves of the opportunity of her exhortation to accompany her to this mystical location.
Sid had forewarned him correctly. Almost all the numbers from the score had been included, with hardly any of them truncated in length and consequently the so-called medley totalled nearly twenty-five minutes. Seemingly oblivious to its lack of suitability for an elderly female performer, Margery had also included the resolutely masculine homage to the female sex, ‘There Is Nothing Like A Dame’ within the selection. From the back of the room a lone voice cried out plaintively.
‘I want to go home. I want to see my parents.’ Freddie noticed his grandfather’s shoulders starting to shake. Concerned that in some way the singing, albeit excruciating, had released an untapped sorrow from within he realised with relief that the reaction was one of humour.
The musical journey progressed on its interminable way, its destination only reached by the tactful intervention of the care home Manager. It struck him that this might not have been the first time she had found herself in this position, Margery’s thirst for glory being seemingly unquenchable. She had started to reach for yet another piece of music to hand to her hapless pianist but fate, in the form of authority, prevented her from doing so.
‘We’re all grateful to Margery for giving us such pleasure this afternoon’ she cooed unconvincingly, as she took her place beside a singer wreathed in smiles of misplaced self-satisfaction. A small pile of music remained in full view on the piano – and, as if in acknowledgement of the fact, the Manager tapped her watch meaningfully. ‘I’m sure we’d all love to hear some more, but the time has just flown by and we’re waiting to serve the evening meal. Would you please show your appreciation in the usual way?’
The ‘usual way’ elicited sparse applause, coupled with audible sighs of relief – the beneficiary mistaking the latter for appreciation of her art as she bowed her head in triumphant acknowledgement.
Anxious to mingle with her public, Margery wended her way around the room exchanging pleasantries, leaving her minion to gather up the music from the floor. Freddie dashed over to the young man, crouching down to help him.
‘Thank you, but don’t worry,’ the pianist reassured him. ‘Did you enjoy the concert?’
Freddie hesitated. ‘I think it’s wonderful Margery’s singing at her age,’ he said eventually, almost reiterating verbatim the carer’s earlier comments because he could think of little else positive to say.
‘There’s no need to be tactful,’ the boy smiled knowingly, running his fingers through hair. ‘I’m very fond of Margery but it’s an event if we both finish a song at the same time. And as for her voice . . .’ His own trailed off, in expectancy of a tacit understanding on the part of the listener.
Freddie couldn’t resist asking the next question.
‘How long have you been playing for her?’
‘For several years and what you really mean is why am I playing for her?’ responded his companion affably, making Freddie blush at his perception. ‘She teaches me the piano and because of her I’m off to study at the Royal College of Music in Manchester.’ He paused for a moment reflectively. ‘She’s a good teacher,’ he added in explanation in case her tutelage and its successful outcome seemed incompatible. ‘She simply can’t hear herself when she sings. Do you know she’s older than some of the people in here? Very self-sufficient, though. Once I leave for music college she’ll have to find someone else to accompany her. I don’t suppose you play?’ Freddie shook his head, secretly grateful for his lack of musicianship and thus his inability to fill the unenviable vacancy.
The music now having been arranged in a neat pile on top of the keyboard, the young man scooped it up in his arms. ‘I’m going to have prise Margery away,’ he whispered to Freddie. ‘Hope to see you again some time.’
Freddie was too shy to ask his name and was disappointed that this personable young man would not cross his path again. It was unlikely that Margery would be asked back before the young man disappeared into the fleshpots of Manchester. She did, however, return to the home several times, with other young accompanists in tow and much merriment taking place behind her back, including that of Freddie’s. He resumed his reading with a smile on his lips; the encounter with a young accompanist who would later achieve international fame giving him pleasure. His biographer had quoted his subject’s adult views on his memories of Margery in one paragraph:
‘She was undoubtedly eccentric,’ it read. ‘Many thought she was a fool because she had the most excruciating voice you’ve ever heard, but she herself thought it was beautiful. She was a provincial version of the American soprano Florence Foster-Jenkins. (At this point the biographer had referenced the film starring Meryl Streep). Like her famous counterpart, Margery had an undoubted inherent musicality and I doubt very much whether I would have attained my place at The Royal College of Music without her instrumental tutelage. She was over eighty and still singing. Maybe to a captive audience, but it did no-one any harm. She drove around the country until she was almost ninety, competing in music festivals, attending courses and playing the violin in amateur orchestras. She never married and lived by herself. Many people of her age would have given up at a much younger age, but she never did and not once asked anyone for help. She was a one-off. To my shame I did not keep in touch too often, but knew she was proud of me.’
Freddie laid down the book.
‘I wish I had laughed at her less,’ he said to no-one in particular. ‘It’s very true. You can’t judge a book by its cover.’