37 Life-saving strategies and Tommy

Daily life is an adventure and a constant challenge to one's ingenuity, I discover. The other thing I have learnt is that nothing really changes. I think the Indian caste system probably gets it more or less right, though I find it offensive and unjust. You are born into a certain milieu and have to come to terms with it, however awful it is.  But isn’t that still the case? The children of affluent parents have more choices and more opportunities.

Maybe nature has taken care of injustice to some extent. Even with the trappings of self-improvement and success you can’t grow out of yourself. So arguably at least you know where you belong if that’s what you were born into. As long as you keep to the (mostly unwritten) rules, you are safe as houses. As I write that, I reflect that civilization really depends on people staying put and preferably not questioning their fate. The democratic system is not a caste system (is it?), but wherever you go, the dog eats dog mentality is hovering and it pays to be in a higher class (caste), as feudal and other social systems confirm.

I’m not leaving communism out. Wherever you are, whatever the system, it’s a case of them and us. Most of us have to depend for a fair crack at life’s whip on the mercy and decency of ‘them’. The most successful system in modern times has probably been capitalism, but only for the affluent, who get richer all the time thanks to their compound interest and privileges, while the poor stay put because they lack the wherewithal to improve their status. In life the ordinary take it or leave it.

So dodging the system is probably the answer, though a theoretic one in a caste system. A child quickly knows its position in whatever circle it belongs to and also learns to use the power he might have as long as he is young enough to be privileged. Once its parents or guardians realize this, they usually put a stop to it by installing rules and regulations that are more likely to make their lives pleasanter. Being in charge is part of the class system, of course. Who wants to be an underdog?

For instance, if you don't want to play hockey on a wet, foggy Friday afternoon, it's no use complaining about getting your fingers broken and not being able to practise the piano, because the jolly-hockey-sticks sports teacher, Miss Butt, who drives you out like cattle onto the slippery playing field, has no time for such sissy nonsense.

No, a cleverer strategy is called for. You have to spend an inordinate length of time dawdling after your last lesson, charge puffing and blowing and late into the changing rooms and reveal with moans and groans of feigned disappointment and anguish that not only have you left your hockey boots at home, but you are also suffering from advanced appendicitis. You are then left to sit on the stairs going down to the sports field from the changing rooms, which are locked because of thieves - though who would want to pilfer schoolgirls' gym-slips and satchels is a mystery to me - while the foolish bash the ball around outside in the bog. I know this strategy works because it is one of my favourites.

Time not spent chasing a silly ball is time get homework done. There are always three or four stair-sitters suffering from one ailment or other. I am a traditionalist. I have long since decided that Friday hockey, or any hockey at all, for that matter, is not essential to my well-being, and might even impede my weekend activities, which are soon to include travelling to Chester by train on Saturdays for my singing lessons, and intensive practice on the piano now I have chosen to free-wheel rather than have Smith the Piano traipsing into the house every Wednesday. I need crippled fingers like I need a hole in the head.

My general strategy is aided by Miss Butt's pathetically short memory. Her brains are in her legs.

My weekly pilgrimages to Miss Orlando's comes to rather an abrupt end when Dada, having noticed that I am coughing a lot – and he has reason to worry, being a victim of tuberculosis  himself - finally puts his foot down. If her house is cool and damp in the summer, it is freezing cold and wet in the winter. All day, Anna, the housemaid, wears her overcoat, hat and gloves with the ends of the fingers cut off, and Janet is now suffering from chronic bronchitis and coughs so hard and long that she doesn't even have to think up excuses for not joining the Friday hockey stampede.

The state of Miss Orlando’s premises is most certainly the reason I have been coming home hoarse and frozen to the bone, and because just being in that house gives you all sorts of ills and chills and could ruin your health forever, Dada is understandably worried that I might catch something similar to what he has.

I don’t protest. I've had to take the ladies’ chorus for rehearsals because Miss Orlando's bronchitis with its rhythmic, belly-button barking has finally got the better of her and forced her to stay in bed, and I have - with youthful exuberance – been telling all the sopranos that they sing flat. This criticism, though bang on the nail, has not been well received, and there have been audible and drastic protests from the culprits, who even threaten to leave the choir if I didn’t give up the baton, so I have been thinking up excuses not to go to any more rehearsals and face any more of their pitch problems. The three part women's arrangements of Ivor Novello’s saccharine sweet ‘We'll gather lilacs in the spring again’ aren't really my cup of tea, anyway, even if they are the stuff that concerts in old folks' homes are made of. I am destined for higher things,  I hope.

 Miss Orlando has also failed to notice that my voice is no longer the high girl's voice of a couple of years ago. I am no longer able to sing the top line of the Hallelujah Chorus without considerable discomfort to myself and my neighbours, and Mozart's 'Violets' in the high key is even causing Dada, usually my greatest fan, distress. It isn’t that I don’t have the high notes; it’s just that I deliver them with Wagnerian volume.

All in all, Dada's decision to remove me from Miss Orlando is greeted with relief by everyone concerned except the lady in question, since her income is being curtailed, but discreet enquiries at the public library have already produced a replacement voice teacher.

Established as I already am as a local vocalist, thanks to the many opportunities I get at school to show off my prowess, it is with excited anticipation that I set off with Mama in tow for my audition at the new teacher's house in Chester.

A greater contrast to what I have hitherto experienced of singing teachers could not be imagined. I am about to enter a world I thought only existed in library books with their afternoon cream teas, manicured gardens, grand pianos and ex-army majors ruling the roost. I have only seen sofas covered with pink chintz in Good Housekeeping magazines, where tables laid for tea show the best china, which is apparently used every day. Our best china is most certainly everyday china in more salubrious households. Mama does not wash the dishes; she washes the pots like any good, down to earth farmer’s daughter.

Tommy is a local celebrity. He sings in all the annual Oratoriums and can hold his own with any of the guests from far and wide who make up the other soloists. His baritone voice is dramatic, voluminous, warm and of Bulgarian timbre; his enunciation is masterful; his temperament dynamic.

But at this auspicious first meeting, I am not prepared for Tommy's physical frailness. He is severely handicapped by a deformed foot, and can only limp slowly and painfully in orthopaedic shoes with wedges to even out his legs. He leans heavily on a stick.

I must look very put out, because the first thing he tells Mama and me is that he had to give up the idea of a full-blown professional career at an early age because of this disability.

“The only opera I would look the part in is 'Faust',” he jokes. “A lame Mephisto hiking across the stage would have just the right degree of devilment!”

Needless to say, his best party piece is the 'Golden Calf' aria, which he can sing at the drop of a hat, astonishing you with the sheer noise he produces out of his undersized frame.

But he doesn't burst into song at our first meeting and Mama gives him a painful and unnecessary third degree only cut short by the arrival of his wife Gwen, who brings in the afternoon tea on a huge silver tray, closely followed by her sister Lily bearing the cakes and scones.

We are invited to sit on the chintz covers and afternoon tea is served to us in Royal Doulton on individual side tables in front of a crackling fire, which is taking the chill off the room on this cool Saturday afternoon.

I am enchanted and even more so when Tommy pours some of his tea into his saucer and places it on the carpet next to his fairly good foot.

“Just watch this,” he commands with a twinkle in his eye.

Sure enough, the scruffy little dog that has been sprawling on the hearthrug trots over to Tommy and looks at him with soft, adoring eyes.

“He won't touch his tea until I ring the bell,” Tommy explains.

We all wait expectantly, including the little dog that is panting and thumping its tail impatiently.

A stern nod from Tommy and the dog lies down as though it is about to go off to sleep again. It doesn't take its eyes off the saucer, though.

Even Mama is silent, which I realise later has been the object of the exercise at this moment in time.

Then Tommy drinks the rest of his own tea and taps against the side of his china cup with his teaspoon. This tinkling is the sign the little dog has been waiting for. In no time at all it is standing in front of the saucer lapping up the now cool liquid.

“I must apologise for his table manners,” Tommy comments, laughing. “But he wouldn't like the tea hot and I have to show him who's the boss round here.”

Gwen and Lily applaud, laughing. They have said nothing beyond 'good afternoon' up to now. I am thinking on the quiet that Tommy's popularity may have something to do with his unusual domestic arrangements, for I am not yet sure what role these two ladies play, apart from helping to serve the tea. I must confess that the word 'harem' floats into my consciousness. Is Mama thinking the same thing? She is remarkably quiet.

A penny for your thoughts, Mama.

Tommy at last satisfies our curiosity.

“This is Gwen, my wife and accompanist...” he announces proudly.

“... and this is my sister Lily,” continues Gwen, as Tommy pauses for breath. “She's chief cook and bottle-washer,” explains Tommy as Lily passes the scones round. “Mummy is upstairs in bed,” Gwen explains. “She’s very old and does not like the stairs,” she continues.

I have the feeling that Mama is relieved that there is some kind of chaperoning going on.

Tommy, Gwen and Lily are lovely people.

The ice is broken. Even Mama is charmed, though this charm is to turn into resentment when she realises that Tommy is actively encouraging me to take up a singing career.

“I help Tommy with his students...” explains Gwen.

“..and Mother-in-Law guards the bedrooms,” Tommy jokes.

Mama sniffs.

“I’m afraid Mummy has had bronchitis and can't come down to tea,” Lily regrets, as she hands round doll-sized queen cakes. The fact that Gwen has already explained is of no consequence. Lily is hard of hearing.

Since Gwen and Lily look at least seventy to my inexperienced eye, I wonder how they could possibly still have a mother to look after.

“Mummy is over ninety,” says Gwen, reading my thoughts.

“Old as the hills, Ladies,” Tommy says.

Lily and Gwen laugh, or rather titter at the comment.

This is rehearsed repartee, I am thinking.

“The old lady has eyes like a hawk, but fortunately her hearing isn't perfect, so she doesn't hear any singing,” Tommy tells Mama, who has been silent for longer than I can remember.

“But her patchwork is still the best for miles around,” says Gwen, in defence.

I notice that Gwen has one droopy eye and one good eye. She is also a good deal fatter than Lily, who is constantly on the move making sure everything is fine. I remember that Uncle Frank has a similar arrangement, since the witch-dragon lives in with them on the farm and does all the washing up. But the witch-dragon can’t hold a candle to Lily for niceness.

Mama nods. She is definitely impressed with the setup, even though she might not approve of it. I have the feeling that she is weighing it all up, and sincerely hope she isn't coming to negative conclusions for whatever reason might occur to her. After all, the final decision about the lessons rests with her, since she will have to foot the bill.

At last Tommy takes the stage.

“And now let's get down to business,” he announces.

Mama immediately puts on the face she uses at the greengrocer's when she's making sure the fruit isn't decayed.

“Faith can have her lesson at one forty-five p.m. every Saturday, if that's convenient for her,” he says, consulting his diary, and I nod eagerly.

“Well,” says Mama hesitantly, “she'll have to get the 10 o'clock train.”

“That's all right, Mum,” I tell her.

“But what about her homework and tennis?” she asks Tommy.

Here we go again. How is he to know?

“I told you I'll get any homework done later and I don't care about the tennis,” I tell her in hissed undertones. I am even prepared to give up the Friday chapel youth club and do homework instead, but I don’t let on about that. Let sleeping dogs lie, at least temporarily.

Mama ignores me and carries on as though I am not in the room.

“She's going to play in the school team next term,” she tells Tommy, without so much as a glance in my direction.

I must be dreaming. Here she sits, thinking of all the reasons why I shouldn't have the singing lessons, although the only reason we are here is to arrange them. She is trying to use this excursion to stop me, rather than get me fixed up with a teacher. I wish Dada had been well enough to come with us. He would have shut her up.

Tommy rescues me from my plight.

“So let's get started, now you're here,” he says, winking at me and getting up awkwardly out of his chair. “We wouldn't want you to have had a wasted journey, now would we?” he throws in.

Then he turns to Mama and says: “And this one's on the house, Mrs Jones,” which isn't at all what Mama wants to hear. Firstly, because she hates people thinking she can't afford something and secondly because she hates to have the wind taken out of her sails, which I'm sure is his intention.

Leaning heavily on his stick, Tommy leads the way out of the sitting room into the music room, which is a little smaller, but has a bay window and looks out onto the beautiful garden.

The room is carpeted in soft beige velour, lined with bookshelves displaying a collection of leather bound volumes including opera scores, and dominated by a highly polished walnut baby grand.

Gwen follows us into the room and goes over to the piano. She opens the lid and jams the short prop into position, then sits down on the petit-point upholstered piano stool and removes the felt covering from the ivories.

“This was the first Bechstein to come out of Germany after the war,” she explains and Mama, who has trotted along in our wake, being much too curious to be left behind with Lily, nods appreciatively, despite herself.

“We love it, don't we, Tommy?”

I know Mama would love to have that grand piano. After all, she was lucky enough to practise on one, since my grandmother knew what was what and spent money proving it. There had been a long black concert grand in their parlour, which of course Mama didn't inherit, though she was the only one who could play it, because someone else took it when the time came.

Tommy points to a small, elegant chair in the corner of the room and Mama sits on it gingerly. Then he gesticulates to me to take up my position in the curve of the piano. He himself is standing in his customary position at the piano, supporting himself gently on Gwen’s shoulder, from which position he sings me a scale in rich, voluptuous tones, accompanied with suitable chords by Gwen. I am to sing it after him.

The rest of this first lesson is a dream. In contrast to the conditions at Miss Orlando’s, where you can often see your breath as you sing and have to keep your coat on to avoid catching pneumonia, the warmth of the pleasant room, the lovely people and melodious exercises sung with ease and joy are both therapeutic and inspirational.

I am hooked.

These people are angels.

The three years between that Saturday afternoon and the cold March day when I audition in London and gain a place at the most traditional music college of all are probably the happiest of my life.

Mama never reconciles herself to this arrangement, however.

The longer I go for those lessons, the more desperate she becomes to put an end to them.

Part of my Saturday ritual is filling in the time between the train arriving in Chester station and the lesson starting about two hours later. Unfortunately there is only the one train. So I go shopping. It is on those Saturdays that I lay the foundations for my love of fashion, though my hat craze abates soon and never returns.

My love of window-shopping in all kinds of windows is born in those formative years. I try hats on in hat shops, listen to records in record shops, flip through pattern books at draper’s and read the magazines at Smith’s. I fortify myself with chips and something at a little restaurant upstairs in the Rows and catch the bus to Tommy’s house in time for a cup of tea and my lesson.

This routine is exactly to my taste, but eventually Mama starts to get angry that I am wasting time, as she likes to call it.

“I’m going with you next time,” she announces one day, quite out of the blue. “You can’t spend all Saturdays wandering around the shops.”

And sure enough, the following Saturday there she is, sitting in the train with me, obviously in no mood for anything except getting to grips with the situation, which, had she but known it, has long since got beyond her control.

What I don’t realize as the train chugs its way down the coast is that she has something quite specific in mind with this impromptu visit that has nothing to do with my window-shopping.

Mama is keeping her own counsel. We meander up the road from the station, dodge in and out of various stores, eat fish and chips at the little Rows restaurant and eventually take the bus to Tommy’s road.

“Mama’s come with me,” I explain as Lily opens the door.

“Ah, Mrs Jones. How lovely to see you!” says Tommy. He could not have been more charming if it had been the Queen Mother. Lily and Gwen give Mama much the same welcome, but I know from bitter experience that Mama is not fooled, though she is momentarily impressed.

Lily and Gwen always mean what they say. They always see the best in people and always makes everyone welcome.

“I’ve just made some scones. Come in and have one.”

Mama is now rather nervous, I can see that, but I still haven’t guessed why.

Tommy gives me a kiss on both cheeks and we all sit down to our tea and scones.

“Well, actually, I want to talk about Faith’s lessons,” Mama blurts out and the hairs stand up at the back of my neck.

“Really, Mrs Jones?”

Tommy acts surprised but I’m sure he isn’t.

“Well, yes.” Mama is determined to say her piece. “It’s all got to stop now,” she blurts out with rather more force than she probably means to use. “I mean, how can you encourage her to go on the stage when she has a perfectly good career in teaching ahead of her?”

I can’t believe my ears. Mama has been bottling this up for some time, of course. Just dropping little hints and saving the bombshell for today.

“Mama, I have never said I wanted to be a teacher,” I protest.

“Shut up,” hisses Mama.

“I don’t intend to go on paying you to send Faith down the road to immorality and debauchery,” she is explaining. “You should be ashamed of yourself for leading young girls up the garden path.”

Mama relapses into silence. I am too horrified and embarrassed to say anything and Tommy, Gwen and Lily are shocked to the core.

Gwen jumps up.

“What do you mean by that, Mrs Jones?” she asks with not just a note of sarcasm. “Are you insinuating that we run an immoral house?”

It’s Mama’s turn to be taken aback.

“Well, not in that sense,” she concedes.

“Not in what sense, Mrs Jones?” Tommy asks innocuously.

“You know what I mean,” says Mama, now on the defensive.

“No, I don’t know what you mean, Mrs Jones.”

Tommy is livid. I can see my lessons coming to an abrupt end because my mother can’t behave like a decent human being. I am mortified.

“I only mean that I don’t want Faith to go on the stage, because nice girls don’t do that.”

“Ridiculous. I’m not listening to any more rubbish. Come on Faith, we’ve got work to do.”

With these words, Tommy struggles to his feet and makes for the door.

“And don’t bother to come here again, Mrs Jones. You know the way out.”

“You’re coming with me now,” Mama commands, pulling at my sleeve.

“No, I’m not. I’m staying,” I insist.

“Well, you can pay for your own lessons in future.”

That is Mama’s parting shot. Money talks in her scheme of things and hers has stopped talking.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter, Mrs Jones,” Tommy says. “I’d rather teach Faith for nothing than allow that voice to be smothered by ridiculous and totally false ideas about what we are doing here.”

With those words he shuts the door of the music room behind me, him and Gwen and we proceed with my lesson as if the whole ghastly scene had not happened.

Mama gets home several hours before me that day – I take the later train because I don’t really want to see her ever again - and I think Dada must be really angry about what she has tried to do and torn a strip off her. She can’t have discussed her action with him beforehand because he heartily approves of what I am doing. He would never let her go round insulting people.

Mama has been secretive about her intentions, told lies about why she was going to Chester, and has humiliated me. She is really in the doghouse now. I can tell that because she has developed a migraine and left us to feed ourselves.

The incident is never mentioned in front of me again, either at Tommy’s house or at home.

I continue with my lessons and Tommy gets his fees.

Forgive me for being a little triumphant though the fees were paid because Tommy is not to get the idea that we are impoverished.

My battle has been won and it will soon be time to step out and face the music, literally this time.

But not just yet.