Synopsis.
After war, what songs can possibly be sung?
It may be five years after the Great War, but at last Eric Arthur Worton has such a song: a tonic for the nation, years ahead of any Festival of Britain. Worton, resident of Worcestershire, printer, baffled paterfamilias, creates ‘The Song of the Sun’ with James Edwin Poultney. Poultney, classical pianist but also a veteran of the silver- screen circuit, accompanying the likes of Fatty Arbuckle and Theda Bara at countless Regals and Essoldos, is diffident, cautious and, initially, wary of the grand claims that Worton makes for their joint composition, for its potency as a call to destiny and nationhood.
But Worton is tireless. Through the lives of others he runs, drawing the song after him like a ground-skimming kite. Inevitably, he draws them in, too. His son, Clive, one of the living dead from the war, now a hermit under the family roof. His wife, Clarice; his daughter, Arabella. Miss Ada Garside, local teacher and admirer of Poultney’s musical talents. (Her admiration goes further, in fact, and is reciprocated. But Poultney’s troubled marriage to Emmeline dictates that all must remain noisily unspoken.) And then there is Sir Reginald Charteris, co-chairman of the 1924 Empire Exhibition committee, who is smitten by ‘The Song of the Sun’ and eager for Worton and Poultney to perform it at the Exhibition, specifically, at the Imperial Scouts Jamboree, scheduled for August 1924. Sir Reginald, however, is wholly unaware of what lies beneath the colourless features of his private secretary, Hew Moorcroft. A shadow of a man, Moorcroft becomes infected with dislike of Sir Reginald, then hatred, then a need to destroy all that (he assumes) his superior represents. In this state, Moorcroft falls easy prey to other elements of empire, as shadowy as he is but powerful where he is weak. His need for vengeance is subsumed in a larger game, conducted by furtive telephone calls and kid-gloved signals. Thus he meets the fate of all pawns and takes ‘The Song of the Sun’ and its champions with him.
Yet other figures find themselves blown about as Worton and his song rush by: Marguerite Radclyffe Hall, author of ‘The Well of Loneliness’; Sir Edward Elgar, whose musical gifts Worton might or might not be trying to absorb in one go when he cannons into him at a Music Club; and, via dog-eared piles of sheet- music, the forgotten likes of Leo Dryden, Randall C. Abernathy and Madame Paula (with her deathless promise of ‘Love In The Cornfields’ ).
Strange, what memories a song can evoke. Nearly fifty years later, some of the principal characters, now close to the end of their own songs, lovingly recall ‘The Song of the Sun’ and, inevitably, the malevolence and deception which crept soundlessly up on its creators.
One man with a dream, at pleasure
Shall go forth and conquer a crown--
And two with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
(Arthur William Edgar O Shaughnessy, 1844-1881)
Extract
Part One: 1923 September
Chapter 1
Eric Arthur Worton made another circuit of the piano. Then he strolled to the end of the generous practice room and turned. It pleased him to regard the instrument from afar, especially with the afternoon sun gliding down the lid. Nothing like a sunny day for bringing out the best in a Bechstein. It entranced the wood, Worton was sure: deepened the already breathtaking tone, as though the music of the spheres were seeping through the frame and hammers. Terpsichorean balm, Worton called the sun, and had described it thus to Poultney, who had merely remarked that Terpsichore presided over dancing, a vulgar and sweaty activity properly separate from the beauties of the piano. Poultney, Worton reflected, had little sense of humour and less flexibility: seeing what he himself was driving at, he still had to pick holes in the conceit. But the beauties of the piano--ah, Poultney knew about them, all right, and could bring them forth like no-one else.
Worton rummaged, producing his pocket-watch. Like humour, time-keeping was a gift which rarely graced Poultney’s life. In his case, that threadbare saw was true: he would be late for his own funeral. Indeed, he would miss it entirely, fetching up instead at quite another church. But no matter, not on this occasion. The delay gave Worton time to scrutinize the room, something he had long been aching to do. He wondered if the young ladies were given liberal use of it, or whether they had to make do with the practice rooms on either side, poky holes with mean uprights. He imagined Miss Garside, her Junoesque bearing severe yet not without appeal, unlocking the room with a key on a ring whose girth would amaze a Pentonville gaoler, then ushering in a prize pupil for an extra lesson: final preparation for a performance, perhaps, or a scholarship examination. And she herself was not unblessed with talent. Poultney had spoken glowingly of the recitals she had given at his Music Club (which he really should get along to sometime, if only to keep the man quiet). She, it transpired, was equally admiring of Poultney’s finesse. And, once Worton had hit on his idea, this touching mutuality had proved most useful. Poultney had needed some persuasion before he would approach her--well, Worton knew he would. But it had apparently taken only a short exchange (during which, no doubt, Miss Garside had felt maternal stirrings at Poultney’s bashful hesitancy) to secure them access to this prestigious school--and, more to the point, this finely understated practice-room with its gem of a Bechstein.
From outside came a gathering rumble. Again Worton consulted his watch. The four-twelve, slowing for the station, spread a billow of steam over the windows. Worton had wondered, more than once, how the young ladies (or anyone) could possibly concentrate with the sound of trains regularly invading their consciousness. In another way, however, it was fitting. Were these ladies not the living symbols of status and achievement--daughters of statesmen, emissaries, toilers at the highest level of enterprise? And would they not, in due course, complete the ordained circle by becoming wives and mothers of the same? And was not the locomotive the most splendid symbol of their nation--of its intellect, its progress, its rightful pre-eminence in the world? So, then, it could not possibly be a noisome intrusion, but rather an hourly reminder to these happy boarders of the need for diligence and the rewards it would surely bring. A metronome of Empire, Worton fancied, regretting that he had left his notebook at home and hoping that the phrase would linger until he could set it down. At the thought of Empire, he saw again, as many times before, the newly-minted grandeur that was Wembley Stadium, and imagined the glory that would shortly be his--and Poultney’s, of course. A stab of irritation made him tense his shoulders. Where was the man? Immediately he chided himself: calmness, calmness was all, otherwise the lyrical mood would desert him and the afternoon would go for nothing.
Beyond the window, the train belched and shrieked, preparing to resume its journey to Hereford. Eric Arthur Worton breathed in sharply, releasing air in measured fashion: a relaxation trick his wife had gleaned from one of her socialist friends--a palmist, or, to phrase it otherwise, a lunatic. Still, it did seem to work. Worton closed his eyes, timing each inbreath and outbreath so that they synchronised with the dwindling chug of the train. Such regularity would surely prove irresistible bait for the Muse. The afternoon would be fruitful after all. And they were nearly there: the song was all but complete. Again he saw Wembley, its stage, the dramatic sweep of its seating, its acreage given over to the celebration of Empire. And he heard--a pin drop, as he doubtless would after he and Poultney had finished their offering. He savoured the seconds of awestruck silence, prelude to the thunder of applause, the back-clapping--and, who could tell, perhaps the insistence that he (and Poultney) be carried shoulder-high around the stadium, exhibits themselves, true patriot sons? The first lines of his lyric ran through his mind, Poultney’s piano rippling behind them:
Rise up, sun, and fill our day with joy and gladness,
Rise up, sun, and banish all our tears and sadness,
Spread your beams on the air,
Gild the world anew.
His eyes still closed, he frowned. Yes, that anew : vexing, vexing--he couldn’t determine whether it should be short, the first syllable accentuated, or long, like--like the sun’s warmth, really, calling nature’s colours back to life after the long, uncaring night. Poultney wasn’t a titter of use in the matter: said he didn’t like anew anyway, that once more was far preferable, being clearer for a huge audience and allowing him to give two chordal thumps before they sailed into the next part. Chordal thumps, for pity’s sake! Sometimes Poultney carried on like some hurdy-gurdy man, oblivious to the gift at his fingers ends. Anyway, he would bring that anew to heel before he lived a minute longer. He screwed up his eyes: “Ah-new! Ah-new!” he bellowed; then: “Aaaaahhhh--nyoooo.”
