The Melody Girls Page 2

  ‘Oh, no,’ Lorna groaned, and hastily packed away the saxophone, put on her lipstick, found her cardigan and her coat, and ran out to join her mother and Auntie Cissie.

  ‘OK, I’m ready.’

  ‘Why, you’re never wearing high heels to go out, Lorna?’ Cissie asked. ‘It’s raining, you ken. Quick, put your boots on and I’ll take your shoes in ma bag. Tilly, have you got the umbrellas?’

  If we could just get going, Lorna thought, as nervous now as a racehorse under starter’s orders. Just hope I feel better when I get there.

  Three

  Although they thought they’d given themselves plenty of time, when Lorna and her family arrived at the Merchant Hall in Newington, they found it almost full and already uncomfortably warm. Not something you normally had to complain about in Edinburgh’s public rooms, as Cissie remarked, but oh, dear, what about the smell of the damp coats and wellingtons, then? It would have to be a wet night, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Just as long as we get seats,’ Tilly murmured, scanning the rows of chairs. ‘You’ll be all right, Lorna, you’ll be behind the scenes, eh?’

  ‘I’d better go and see what’s happening,’ Lorna said, putting her hands to her flushed cheeks. ‘Will you take my coat and cardigan, Ma? And Auntie Cissie, where’s my shoes?’

  ‘There’s somebody waving to us,’ Cissie said, nobly handing over Lorna’s high heels in exchange for her damp boots. ‘It must be that young man you mentioned, eh? I think he’s got some seats for us.’

  ‘Yes, it’s Ewen!’ Tilly cried. ‘Oh, good lad, he’s saved us some seats – that’s a relief.’

  As they made their way through other family members and friends of the performers searching for seats, Lorna was staring in surprise.

  ‘Why, there’s Pattie!’ she exclaimed, ‘And – oh, no – Miss Dickinson! Who’d have thought she’d come tonight?’

  ‘Hi, Lorna!’ Ewen cried, as they came up to the front row. ‘Hello, Mrs Fernie. I made sure of some seats for you – they’re in the second row – got here before they even opened the doors.’

  ‘And I’m sure we’re very grateful,’ Tilly gasped. ‘Well done, Ewen.’

  ‘Never thought to see you here, Pattie,’ Lorna was murmuring. ‘And Miss Dickinson – it was nice of you to come.’

  ‘Why, Lorna, we had to come and give you our support!’ cried Miss Dickinson, who was looking younger and smarter than when at work. ‘And it’s in aid of the children’s hospital, too, isn’t it? I’m always one for a good cause.’

  ‘Wanted to come and wish you luck,’ Pattie said earnestly. ‘We’ll all be cheering for you, Lorna.’

  But Lorna’s eyes were on three men and one woman taking their seats in the front row. One of the men she recognized as being the conductor of a local orchestra and another the head of a school music department – their photographs were often in the local papers. So was the woman’s – she was a well-known soprano. But the fourth person Lorna didn’t know and could only guess who he might be. From the BBC, perhaps? For these, of course, were the judges.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she muttered, and holding tight to her saxophone case, made her way towards the platform, just as a middle-aged man came out to speak. She didn’t need to wait to hear what he said, she knew he was from the hospital for sick children and would be thanking everybody for the shilling entrance fee they’d paid to hear the contest and wishing all the entrants good luck. All she wanted now, as she moved to join her rivals in a small room at the back of the platform, was for it to be her turn. But of course, they were all wishing the same.

  Although there were only ten talent hopefuls – five young women, five young men – the room seemed full, for some had brought their accompanists, and there were also several women organizers, ticking off names, setting out chairs and trying to put everyone at ease.

  ‘Not long to go now,’ one of these said brightly. ‘There’s Mr Dean making his introduction. Before you know it, it’ll all be over!’

  ‘We’re supposed to be enjoying it,’ one of the girls murmured, at which a small ripple of laughter ran around the room.

  Another girl – tall and pale with anxious eyes and brown hair unevenly cut short – laid her hand on Lorna’s arm. ‘Have you seen the judges?’ she whispered. ‘Are they out there?’

  ‘In the front row. Want to take a peep?’

  ‘No, no, I think we’ll be starting any minute. Where are you on the programme they sent? I’m fifth.’

  ‘I’m fourth. Just before you, then. Before the interval, as well. That’s good, eh?’ Lorna introduced herself, adding that she would be playing her saxophone.

  ‘Oh, my, a saxophone! Is it as difficult as it looks?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘My name’s Hannah Maxwell. I’m just playing the piano.’

  ‘Well, that can be difficult, too. What are you starting with?’

  ‘Chopin’s “Minute Waltz”.’

  ‘Oh, nice,’ Lorna murmured, looking down at the girl’s hands on her roll of music. Strong, pianist’s hands, with spatulate broad fingers. She had the feeling that this girl was good. Probably she could play the “Minute Waltz” in under the time. So, what a bit of luck, eh, that she, Lorna, had decided to play her sax?

  ‘Why in God’s name aren’t we starting?’ a young man with a tenor’s voice asked. ‘It’s ridiculous, keeping us hanging about like this.’

  ‘Are you first on?’ Lorna asked kindly.

  ‘Yes, and I can’t decide whether that’s good or bad.’ He gave a tremulous grin. ‘I’m dead keen to win, you ken. No’ for the money, but the spot on the wireless.’

  ‘We all want that,’ said a tall statuesque young woman, who looked to Lorna like a singer. ‘But I want the money as well.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?’ boomed the voice of a stout woman, one of the organizers. ‘The contest is about to begin. Could Anthony Baird step forward please?’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said the young tenor, swallowing hard. ‘That’s me. Where’s my accompanist? Janet, Janet!’

  ‘I’m here, Tony,’ a girl said comfortingly. ‘No need to panic. I’ve got the music.’

  ‘This way, please, Mr Baird,’ the organizer told him, holding his arm as though he might suddenly run away. ‘You, too, dear, if you’re accompanying him. And when you’ve finished your pieces, could you both just move into the audience? No need to return here.’

  ‘Oh, listen, they’re clapping,’ someone said. ‘That’s nice, eh? If they clap when we come on.’

  ‘Hope they clap when we’ve finished, as well,’ the statuesque young woman sighed, at which Lorna smiled.

  ‘Are you joking? They’re all friends and relations out there. They’ll clap, all right.’

  ‘But maybe no’ for everyone.’

  ‘Never mind the audience,’ Hannah said sharply. ‘Think of the judges.’

  ‘Everyone keep quiet,’ hissed the organizer, returning. ‘Mr Baird is beginning.’

  And as the strains of Sullivan’s ‘Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes’ came back to them, the contestants fell silent.

  Four

  Exquisite agony, was how some later described it, having to sit and wait to go on, while listening to others performing and wondering how good they were, and whether it was worth even stepping out on to the platform, as confidence gradually drained away.

  Whatever happened, Lorna knew that she would go on, do her best, even if all seemed hopeless, for you could never be certain what the judges were looking for – it might be something you’d never expect and you might have it.

  All the same, when her name was called and she had to walk out on to the platform, it took all her courage to smile around the hall, pretend to be at ease, pretend, in fact as that girl had said, to be enjoying herself. And then there were the moments when she had to stand, still smiling, as Mr Dean introduced her and read out what she was going to play on her unaccompanied saxophone, a most unusual, but welcome choice, as he was s
ure everyone would agree.

  ‘A little Bach first, then a rhapsody by Eric Coates, and then something I expect Lorna thought we’d all know.’ Mr Dean laughed a little. ‘“Red Sails in the Sunset”, a very pleasant tune.’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured the audience, and Lorna, sensing their approval, felt a sudden surge of confidence and knew at once that it was going to be all right for her. And so it proved. She played better that evening than she’d ever dared to hope for, and though the applause for the Bach and the Eric Coates was muted, when she finished with “Red Sails in the Sunset”, after being accompanied by half the audience singing along, the clapping was so deafening, she almost felt like shedding a tear or two. She didn’t of course, but waved and smiled to her mother and the rest of her supporters, while thinking with relief that no matter how well Hannah Maxwell played the ‘Minute Waltz’, she couldn’t possibly do any better.

  And when Hannah appeared, looking paler than ever, and Mr Dean announced that she’d be playing Chopin, Schubert and Beethoven, Lorna was still very sure she’d got nothing to fear. Even when Hannah began to play and it was clear she was as good as Lorna had guessed, with a beautiful touch and solid technique, Lorna didn’t allow herself to waver. Good pianists were, after all, not hard to find. There was nothing special about them, nothing different, which was why Lorna had decided against playing the piano herself. Her sax would carry the day, she was sure of it, and in the interval, so many people – apart from her family – were congratulating her, she felt she was walking on air.

  Until, at the end of the contest, after the judges had deliberated in the now empty back room and had appeared to give their verdict, for the first time she felt doubt. Glancing at Hannah, who was trembling beside her, and then at the rest of the entrants, it came to her that she had been far too confident. Worse, big-headed. Why, any of these could win! The tenor, the singers, the fiddle players, or, of course, Hannah. What had possessed her to think her sax would single her out?

  But when the local conductor stepped forward to speak on behalf of the judges, Lorna couldn’t help herself. She still thought, maybe . . . maybe she had won.

  First, of course, there had to come the nice words about all the entrants, to make them feel better over losing. Such a high standard . . . everyone deserving of a prize . . . particularly liked . . . there was the tenor’s name . . . and, oh no, her own! Too soon, if she was going to win. Oh, too soon!

  And, yes, that was right, for here came the final announcement. By unanimous decision, for her professionalism, her sensitivity, and her most talented piano playing, the winner was . . .

  ‘Hannah Maxwell!’

  Everything after that was a blur, as the bitterness sank in. Even when Lorna’s name was called as runner-up and she had to go up to the judges with Anthony Baird who’d taken third place, she felt quite unreal. Perhaps he did, too, for his grin was forced as he accepted his prize of three pounds and later congratulated Lorna on her five.

  ‘No’ bad, eh? Better than nothing.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ she heard herself heartily agreeing. ‘It’s more than twice my wages.’

  ‘But no’ a chance to broadcast.’

  ‘That’s only for Hannah.’

  And then, of course, they joined in the congratulations being given to Hannah, now scarlet in the face and being embraced by her parents and a girl who might have been her sister, before turning away to be consoled by their own families.

  ‘Ah, pet, what a shame, eh!’ Cissie was crying, and Tilly was just putting her arm around Lorna and Pattie was saying, well, never mind, five pounds was a fortune, eh? And Miss Dickinson was saying she’d been so thrilled by ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’, and Ewen was declaring that Lorna should have won, and she was shaking her head and telling him to keep his voice down, when another voice cut through to her and she turned in surprise.

  ‘Miss Fernie – forgive me for interrupting – but could I have a word?’

  A tall well-dressed man of about forty, carrying a hat and a raincoat over his arm, was standing at her elbow. He had dark hair that was mixed with grey and a sharp, dark gaze, and as her eyes went over him, the world for Lorna suddenly became real again. She had no idea who he was, but she knew somehow that he was important. Or, might be – to her.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked, standing aside from people leaving, as her mother, Auntie Cissie, Ewen, Pattie and Miss Dickinson, all stood staring at the newcomer.

  ‘I’m Luke Riddell. From Glasgow. You may have heard of me? I have a dance band there. Luke Riddell’s Orchestra?’

  Five

  He had a dance band?

  Lorna’s eyes on Mr Riddell were not just bright, but starry. He had a dance band in Glasgow, and he’d asked to speak to her? Could it mean anything? Such as what? Take a hold, she told herself, stop staring, stop thinking, say something!

  But Mr Riddell’s gaze had moved to Tilly, standing close to Cissie, both looking wary, though Cissie, Lorna could tell, was excited. She always loved the unexpected and to have this well-dressed stranger coming up to speak to Lorna was unexpected, all right. Tilly, though, just wanted to know what was going on and perhaps sensing this, Mr Riddell guessed correctly that she was Lorna’s mother. Again apologizing for interrupting, he asked if Tilly was Mrs Fernie.

  ‘That’s right,’ Tilly admitted cautiously. ‘I’m Mrs Fernie.’

  ‘Well, then, I knew your husband. We met from time to time, as folk in the same line of business do, and I always admired his music making. I was very sorry to hear that he’d—’

  ‘Yes, he died last year,’ Tilly said quickly. ‘But why did you want to speak to my daughter?’

  ‘I wanted to compliment her on her playing. In my opinion, she should have won.’ Mr Riddell turned to Lorna. ‘When I heard your name announced, I guessed you were Cam Fernie’s daughter, and when you took up that tenor sax of his – it was his, wasn’t it? – I knew at once that you were going to be good. And might be what I’m looking for.’

  ‘Looking for?’ Lorna repeated, swallowing hard.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Tilly, as Cissie’s eyes widened and a frown creased Ewen’s brow.

  ‘Well, when I thought I’d look in on the contest – I happened to be in Edinburgh on business and somebody told me about it – I never expected to find a sax player. But the way things are, with some of my guys not coming back to the band after the war, I’ve got vacancies and one’s for tenor sax.’ Mr Riddell gave a brief smile. ‘And yes, I do take women in my band. I’ve got two already.’

  ‘Are you . . .?’ Lorna began, then stopped. She couldn’t put it into words, she couldn’t say, as though it was something quite to be expected: ‘Are you offering me a job?’ He was, though, offering her a job. She knew it. Just couldn’t believe it.

  ‘We can’t talk here,’ Mr Riddell was saying quietly. ‘Perhaps you’ll take my card, Miss Fernie? Discuss it with your mother, and then, if you’re interested in playing with the band, give me a ring.’

  ‘Interested? I am interested, Mr Riddell.’

  ‘It’s out of the question,’ Tilly said, her voice shaking. ‘Lorna could never go to work for a band in Glasgow.’

  ‘That’s right, she’s got a job here,’ Ewen declared. ‘In the post office.’

  ‘The post office?’ Mr Riddell repeated.

  ‘I really think we should be going,’ Miss Dickinson said abruptly. ‘Pattie, Ewen—’

  ‘I’m no’ going anywhere.’ Ewen’s face was dark red. ‘Except with Lorna and her folks.’

  ‘We’re all leaving now,’ Cissie told him cheerily. ‘It’s like Mr Riddell says, we can’t talk here, anyway.’

  ‘Miss Fernie, I look forward to hearing from you,’ the bandleader said smoothly. ‘And Mrs Fernie, please don’t worry. Your daughter can talk it over with you and it can all be sorted out for the best. It’s been very nice meeting you, and everyone.’

  And having politely inclined his head and put on his hat and raincoat, Luke Riddell walk
ed swiftly from the emptying hall.

  ‘Well!’ Cissie exclaimed, laughing a little. ‘Talk about a surprise, eh? Imagine a guy like him coming up to speak to Lorna, then! And he knew Cam, and all!’

  ‘Let’s just get home,’ Tilly said shortly. ‘We’re going to be the last out at this rate.’

  ‘Aye, we’ll be sweeping the floor, next,’ Ewen said glumly, his eyes fixed on Lorna, who in fact was incapable of seeing him, or anything, except what was in her own mind.

  ‘I’m away for my tram,’ Miss Dickinson murmured, her eyes, too, fixed on Lorna. ‘Pattie, I think you’re going my way?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Dickinson.’

  ‘Ewen?’

  ‘I’m going back with Lorna.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then. And Lorna, be sure to do as Mr Riddell said, my dear. Discuss everything with your mother, that’s always best. We wouldn’t want you to . . . get carried away.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll discuss it, all right,’ Tilly said coldly.

  Only Cissie kept up a stream of chatter on the tram going home, with Tilly and Ewen keeping a stern silence and Lorna still lost in her own thoughts. Back at the flat, however, Tilly managed to be polite and asked Ewen in for a cup of tea, and a slice of cake. Yes, she’d managed to get a Dundee cake from the Stores, wonders would never cease.

  ‘Probably be dry as dust, but seeing as I’ve no eggs left, there’s no baking for me, eh? Come on in, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Fernie, it’s nice of you to ask me, but I think I’d better get off home. You and Lorna, you’ve things to talk over.’

  ‘If you’re sure, now? Come some other time, then. You’re always welcome.’

  As he murmured his thanks again, Ewen’s gaze rested on Lorna. ‘You’ll no’ rush into anything?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘You’ll think about what’s best?’

  Focusing her eyes on him at last, Lorna gave a radiant smile. ‘Of course I’ll do what’s best, Ewen. No need to worry about that.’