“As long as you do your best?”
“Exactly. And our best, well, I’m afraid it’s not very good. But there we are.”
Isabel looked out over the lawn. It interested her that those who had done one thing very well in their lives would often try to master something else, and fail. Peter had been a very successful financier; now he was a very marginal clarinettist; success undoubtedly made failure easier to bear, or did it? Perhaps one became accustomed to doing things well and then felt frustrated when one did other things less well. But Isabel knew that Peter was not driven in this way; he was happy to play the clarinet
I S A B E L C L O S E D H E R E Y E S, and listened. The players, seated in the auditorium of St. George’s School for Girls, which patiently hosted the Really Terrible Orchestra, were tackling a score beyond their capabilities; Purcell had not intended this, and would probably not have recognised his composition. It was slightly familiar to Isabel—or passages of it were—but it seemed T H E S U N D A Y P H I L O S O P H Y C L U B
1 8 1
to her that different sections of the orchestra were playing quite different pieces, and in different times. The strings were particularly ragged, and sounded several tones flat, while the trombones, which should have been in six-eight time, like the rest of the orchestra, seemed to be playing in common time. She opened her eyes and looked at the trombonists, who were concentrating on their music with worried frowns; had they looked at the conductor they would have been set right, but the task of reading the notes was all they could manage. Isabel exchanged smiles with the person in the seat beside her; the audience was enjoying itself, as it always did at a Really Terrible Orchestra concert.
The Purcell came to an end, to the evident relief of the orchestra, with many of the members lowering their instruments and taking a deep breath, as runners do at the end of a race. There was muted laughter amongst the audience, and the rustle of paper as they consulted the programme. Mozart lay ahead, and, curiously,
“Yellow Submarine.” There was no Stockhausen, Isabel noticed with relief, remembering, for a moment, and with sadness, that evening at the Usher Hall, which was why she was here, after all, listening to the Really Terrible Orchestra labouring its way through its programme before its bemused but loyal audience.
There was rapturous applause at the end of the concert, and the conductor, in his gold braid waistcoat, took several bows.
Then audience and players went through to the atrium for the wine and sandwiches that the orchestra provided its listeners in return for attendance at the concert.
“It’s the least we can do,” explained the conductor in his concluding remarks. “You have been so tolerant.”
Isabel knew a number of the players and many of those in the audience, and she soon found herself in a group of friends hover-ing over a large plate of smoked salmon sandwiches.
1 8 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h
“I thought they were improving,” said one, “but I’m not so sure after this evening. The Mozart . . .”
“So that’s what it was.”
“It’s therapy,” said another. “Look how happy they were.
These are people who could never otherwise play in an orchestra.
This is group therapy. It’s great.”
A tall oboist turned to Isabel. “You could join,” he said. “You play the flute, don’t you? You could join.”
“I might,” said Isabel. “I’m thinking about it.” But she was thinking about Johnny Sanderson, who must be the man at Peter Stevenson’s side, being led in her direction by her host, and looking at her through the crowd.
“I wanted you two to meet,” said Peter, effecting the introduction. “We might be able to persuade Isabel to join us, Johnny.
She’s much better than us but we could do with another flautist.”
“You could do with everything,” said Johnny. “Music lessons, to start with . . .”
Isabel laughed. “They weren’t too bad. I liked ‘Yellow Submarine.’ ”
“Their party piece,” said Johnny, reaching for a slice of brown bread and smoked salmon.
They spoke about the orchestra for a few minutes before Isabel changed the subject. He had worked with McDowell’s, she had heard; had he enjoyed being there? He had. But then he thought for a moment and looked at her sideways, in mock suspicion. “Was that why you wanted to meet me?” He paused. “Or rather why Peter wanted us to meet?”
Isabel met his gaze. There was no point in dissembling here, she thought; she could tell that Johnny Sanderson was astute.
“Yes,” she said simply. “I’m interested in finding out about them.”
T H E S U N D A Y P H I L O S O P H Y C L U B
1 8 3
He nodded. “There’s not much to find out,” he said. “It’s a pretty typical setup. They’re rather dull, in fact, most of them.
I was on social terms with a few of them, I suppose, but for the most part I found them somewhat . . . tedious. Sorry. That sounds a bit arrogant, but that’s what they were. Number people.
Mathematics.”
“Paul Hogg?”
