PROLOGUE - MAY 1974
ELSPETH MCPHAIL
“The guest
in Musical Memories tonight is the
distinguished tenor, Derek Bailey, who celebrates his seventieth birthday
today. Join Michael Broadstairs in conversation with Derek Bailey at 8.30 this
evening.”
The television
set was the focal point of the tiny sitting room of the modest terrace house in
South Lambeth. It stood at an angle in the corner of the room with the
armchairs and couch of the old-fashioned maroon lounge suite facing towards it.
The only other item in the room was a large veneer cocktail cabinet, which had
been George Pratt’s proudest and most utilised possession when he was alive. He
had died five years earlier, and the two remaining occupants of the little
house had little use for it except as a handy receptacle for the odds and ends
they brought into the room to keep themselves comfortable and well fed while
they watched television.
Although
it was springtime, the atmosphere was redolent with the mingled odours of fish
and vinegar, more in keeping with a cold winter’s night than a pleasant spring
evening. The elderly occupants were settled deep in their armchairs eating from
TV trays.
Mrs Pratt,
George’s widow, uttered an exclamation at the announcement. She turned eagerly
to her younger sister, expecting her to react to the words in some way, but judging
by the remote expression on Elspeth McPhail’s face, she doubted whether Elspeth
had even heard the announcement. Her sister was eating her fish and chips
slowly, staring at the television screen without registering any visible
emotion.
“Did you hear that, El?” asked Mrs Pratt. “I
thought he had died years ago. To think we’ll be seeing your old flame after
all these years.”
Mary Pratt
was surprised that Elspeth McPhail only smiled faintly in response. Mary
thought it would be interesting to see Elspeth’s old boss again after nearly
forty years, yet she doubted whether she would have the patience to listen to
him blathering away about the technicalities of singing for the full half-hour.
But it might cheer Elspeth up to see him and they could always switch over to
the variety show if Derek Bailey’s interview proved too dull for them.
“You were
a bonny girl and could have had any man you pleased, but after Derek Bailey
married that singer Helen Dean, the sparkle seemed to go out of you.”
“I don’t want to talk about Derek Bailey,”
Miss McPhail retorted irritably. “Let’s just enjoy the telly while we eat our
tea.”
Somewhat
disappointed at Elspeth’s calm demeanour in the light of the significant
announcement on the TV, Mary Pratt fell silent and settled down again to watch
her favourite soapie. After a bleak day doing her share of cleaning and cooking
in the small house, she was only too pleased to immerse herself in Coronation Street where everybody led
such eventful lives compared to their own dull lives, and even the most casual
conversations proved to be of the deepest significance to the development of
the plot. Periodically she glanced at Elspeth, but still her sister gave no
outward hint of her feelings as she continued to stare impassively at the flickering
television screen.
Mary could
not help remembering that she herself had been responsible for curtailing
Elspeth’s relationship with Derek Bailey. She had never told her sister that
several years after his shot-gun marriage to Helen Dean, Derek Bailey had
arrived at this very house in a distraught state, begging Mary to tell him how
he could find Elspeth. She had sent him away, claiming that her sister was on
the point of marrying someone else and refused to give Derek Bailey her
address. At the time she thought she was acting in Elspeth’s best interests and
that she would eventually marry Archie Taggart and forget all about Derek, but
here she was, after a life time spent in domestic service, still unmarried with
only distant memories of the halcyon days she had spent with Derek Bailey to
sustain her.
Elspeth
resented retirement. After forty years as housekeeper to a variety of
employers, she found enforced inactivity dull. Her interests, once so varied,
had been whittled down to occasional trips to the local library and mindless
nights of fish and chips eaten on a tray in front of the telly. It was only
when she was alone in her small bedroom that she was free to remember the
exciting days when she had been ecstatically happy with Derek and had lived her
life to the full.
Tonight,
despite her outward calm in front of Mary, her long-term lethargy had indeed
been dispelled. At the mention of her old employer’s name, her fingertips had
tingled as long-forgotten emotions and memories, too deep-seated and intimate
ever to share with her garrulous sister, resurfaced.
Derek
Bailey had been Elspeth’s first employer shortly after she arrived from
Scotland as a raw and ignorant young girl. He was making his name as a singer
when she became his housekeeper, and after she left his employ, his glowing
reference had ensured that she became housekeeper to a succession of other
famous and sometimes titled people. But although the conditions of her
employment and salary improved with every move she made, none of her subsequent
employers ever made the profound impression on her life as Derek Bailey himself
had done.
She had
never stopped thinking of Derek for the rest of her life, nor had she found
another man to match him, although she had received a few offers of marriage in
her time. In the years of Derek Bailey’s success, she had listened to his
broadcasts, collected his records and kept scrapbooks of cuttings about his
performances and his colourful personal life. When she managed to save some
extra money she had even attended some of his concerts and had felt proud that
his performances were received with such enthusiasm. But over the last ten
years, there had been fewer broadcasts, concerts, or newspaper cuttings to give
her staid life the occasional frisson of excitement.
She had
heard so little about him lately that she often wondered whether he was still
alive and in good health. Her sister asked her why she took the Daily Telegraph. It seemed like a highfalutin
newspaper for plain people like them. Elspeth justified buying the paper,
citing that it was well-written with excellent political and arts coverage. She
even whiled away her spare time trying her hand at the daily crossword. But she
refused to admit to her sister that the real reason she took the paper was because
of its extensive obituary page. If anything happened to Derek, she trusted the Daily Telegraph to let her know at once
and to write a fitting tribute to him.
She would
watch Musical Memories tonight. If
she chose to do so, she could share with the world a number of non-musical
memories concerning Derek Bailey, but so far she had never confided them to
anyone, not even to her own sister. Nobody was ever likely to hear of the bond
which had once existed between Elspeth McPhail, now a sixty-two year old working-class
spinster, and Derek Bailey, celebrated tenor.
The
intrigues of the folk in Coronation
Street were lost to her that night as she thought of the intrigue of forty
years before which had coloured her life for all time.
LINDA BAILEY
Linda Bailey regarded
herself in her dressing-table mirror with well-founded satisfaction. She had
been to her hairdresser that afternoon for a rinse and set. The light auburn
colour of her hair suited her pale complexion and complemented her deep green
eyes. She was wearing her low-cut, figure-hugging aquamarine evening dress and
the ruby necklace and earrings Derek had given her as a present for a distant
wedding anniversary. She anticipated the comments of the women at the party to
be held in Derek’s honour after the interview.
“The old
girl must be sixty if she’s a day, but doesn’t she still look marvellous? She could easily pass for thirty-five – in
the right light!”
Linda
looked forward to being the centre of attraction again, fêted by eminent
theatrical and musical people because she was Derek’s wife. Derek had retired
from the Kings Opera company some years earlier to become a celebrated teacher
of singing at one of the music colleges, but his dry academic colleagues bored
her in comparison to the flamboyant theatrical and musical colleagues she had
known while he was still performing. It horrified her to realise that almost
two generations knew Derek only from an occasional lecture-recital, the old
seventy-eights and the few long-playing records he had made towards the end of
his singing career.
On rare
occasions when the BBC risked its recording equipment to play one of his
records, there was usually a cautionary preface, “Now for one of our historical
recordings by veteran tenor, Derek Bailey. Please excuse the scratchy
surface...”
Linda
tried to console herself with the fact that the veteran had worn very well and
was still handsome and charming enough to turn a number of greying heads and,
more worryingly for Linda, a few blonde, brunette and auburn heads also. She
always made a determined effort to laugh off his flirtations with the legion of
young women who were invariably flattered by the light-hearted attentions of a
famous man.
She told
friends airily that he had a predilection for young girls, aged eighteen to
twenty-five, as though it was all a great joke, but it had amazed her that
recently he had the gumption to expand one of these flirtations into a serious
and long-lasting affair. It seemed she had managed to persuade Derek to end
that ludicrous fiasco. He was going to see the little bitch for the last time
tomorrow to let her know their affair was at an end, once and for all. At
least, that is what Derek told her he would do but she was not sure whether she
could believe him. But then, he had little reason to be entirely confident of
her lasting fidelity and honesty either.
She turned
to him. He was sitting in a fat armchair, sipping a small whisky. These days he
preferred to spend the evenings at home reading an entertaining novel, rather
than face the drive through busy London streets, but the invitation to appear
on Musical Memories had been too
intriguing to turn down.
He rose
reluctantly with only the merest suggestion of creakiness, and glanced briefly
at himself in his wife’s mirror. His evening suit was nearly twenty-five years
old, but skilful alterations allowed it to hang as stylishly on him as it had
ever done.
“Nobody
will believe you’re a day over sixty, darling,” smiled Linda, reading his
thoughts. “Not a bad looking pair for our ages, are we? We’ve been through some
torrid times lately, but we are going to be happy now, aren’t we? Our marriage
hasn’t been a complete disaster?”
Derek
Bailey met his wife’s scrutinising gaze and made an effort to keep the doubt
from reflecting in his sad dark eyes.
“You’re
beginning to sound like a publicity handout, darling,” he said lightly. “Now
then, are you ready? We’d better be off sharp otherwise there’ll be no
memories, musical or otherwise tonight.”
As he put
the ignition key into the Jaguar, he suddenly remembered that he had promised
he would try to phone Jane before the broadcast. He had no trouble visualising
her, seated on that little stool beside the telephone of the flat in Earls
Court Square, eating her heart out because he had not rung her as he had
promised. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand why Jane cared
about him as she did. No matter how famous he had once been, he was only a
tired old man who was finding it increasingly draining on his emotions to
maintain their clandestine relationship. He was dreading tomorrow when he had
promised Linda he would see Jane for the last time. Jane had asked little of
him over the five years of their intense affair, but he knew she still cared
for him deeply. Yet, since his return from Australia, he had sensed a subtle
change in her, almost as if she were expecting their relationship to flounder
but didn’t know how to rescue it.
He tried
to shut thoughts of her out of his mind as he glanced at Linda. He had swept
his entire life aside in his determination to marry her, caring nothing about
the bad publicity he had received when he and Helen divorced shortly before the
war, at a time when divorce was more difficult to obtain and caused more
scandal than it would do today.
He could
not even claim that Linda had been the love of his life. After Elspeth, no
other woman had managed to stir the same depth of feeling in him. Certainly
Linda had been a beautiful and charming young girl, but even before the divorce
from Helen was final, his initial enchantment with her had already faded. He
would have preferred to have held on to his hard won freedom and devote himself
to his work without being tied down in another marriage, but he had felt
obliged to marry Linda because of the scandal she and her family had endured
during the divorce proceedings. But now the passage of time had dimmed the
public’s memory of their shocking liaison, and their long marriage was
generally considered to be a happy, fairy-tale confection.
Jane had
never expected him to go through another publicity-laden divorce for her sake.
He had made it clear from the beginning of their affair that he could never
divorce Linda. He owed it to her to stay with her in their old age.
They had
arrived at TV Centre. Derek braced himself for their entrance, and with a
genial expression on his face he and Linda entered the foyer, arm in arm, the
epitome of public happiness and graciousness. Michael Broadstairs was waiting
for them. Usually he sent his assistant down to collect his guests, but Derek
was one of his oldest friends from their early days in London.
“Marvellous
to see you both,” he was saying, “You look younger every day, Linda, my dear.”
Linda
basked in the warmth of Michael’s compliment and drew her soft wrap closer to
her, flashing her charming smile at Michael, enveloping him in the glow of her
outwardly warm personality. At that moment she felt confident in the lasting
devotion of her husband. She had recovered from the shock of Derek’s five-year
affair with a plain unassuming girl forty years his junior whom she would not
have noticed at a dinner party, far less in a crowd.
JANE WALTERS
Jane Walters was not
really listening to what her mother was saying on the telephone. She kept
glancing at her watch anxiously, wondering how she could stem the constant flow
of Mrs Walters’ inconsequential chatter.
“..So
Dad’s off to Kettering tomorrow to see whether Brownings will put the new
clothing agency in his hands.”
Jane
listened distractedly.
“It will mean the world to us if he gets this,
Jane. You have no idea what a struggle it is trying to keep up appearances on
Dad’s present commission. I sometimes wonder how we’ll manage to live when he
retires. He hasn’t put enough away for us to be really comfortable in our old
age.”
“Mum,”
cried Jane desperately. “I have to go now. I’m expecting such an important
call. I’ll phone you tomorrow, I promise.”
“Why is
this call so important to you, Jane?” her mother asked idly, making Jane feel
even more frantic as her mother launched into another trivial homily. “Has your
agent another engagement for you? It amazes me how people can even afford to
attend concerts at today’s prices. Dad and I can only manage to one if you are
kind enough to give us complimentary tickets and, to be really honest, some of
that modern music bores us stiff and Dad is inclined to nod off and snore – so
embarrassing – but beggars like us can’t …”
“Yes, Mum,
I know. Look after yourself and give Dad my love. Goodbye.”
Even as
she replaced the telephone, she could hear her mother’s voice rambling on
unabated. She would be hurt and accuse Jane of cutting her off. She knew she
should have granted her mother her customary half-hour of chatter about
inflation, the parlous state of the country and the St Albans social scene, but
she was desperate to have the phone free in case Derek should have a spare
moment by himself to phone before the television interview.
Dejectedly
she slumped into her favourite easy chair in front of the television. She had
turned the sound down in the vain hope that Derek might yet telephone, although
she was beginning to doubt whether he would now, only half an hour before the
live TV show was due to commence. Perhaps he’d been trying to call her while
her mother hogged the line or perhaps Linda was all over him and he couldn’t
find a moment to himself.
She could
hear his voice offering the usual excuse for breaking this or that promise.
“It’s so
difficult at times, darling. Linda is always with me when I’m at home.”
Jane often
asked herself what on earth he and Linda found to do all the time they were
together if he had really not slept with her for the last five years. She
remembered an occasion when she and Derek were together in the flat after one
of his prolonged holidays with Linda, nearly three years ago. She had been
weeping foolishly because she saw so little of him, knowing even as she wept,
that he hated tears and if she wept too often she might eventually drive him
away. It was his wife’s prerogative to weep and nag. Jane, the mistress, was
supposed to be cheerful, loving and light-hearted, unperturbed by broken
promises, always understanding him when his wife failed to do so.
“You don’t
think I actually sleep with her?” he had asked, outraged. “I haven’t been to
bed with her for years. She’d wonder what the hell I was doing if I tried
anything on like that! We don’t even share a bedroom.”
“But you
say she loves you, that you can’t leave her...” Jane had trailed off
hopelessly.
He had not
answered. He didn’t want to get involved in a discussion about whether or not
he could leave Linda. Instead, he drew Jane into his arms and made love to her
for the second time that day with all the energy of a younger man and the
deference and gentleness of an older one, willing her to forget her desolation
at his departures and the futile existence she led without him as she lived in
anticipation for the few stolen moments they could spend together.
While
everyone insisted nowadays that marriage was not important, that girls could do
as they pleased, Jane was beginning to feel she was missing out on one of
life’s major experiences. All her friends were married with young children now,
and although they thought she remained single because of her successful musical
career as an accompanist, they persisted in arranging meetings with ghastly men
who had nothing to recommend them except their bachelor status. Derek, on the
other hand, was perfect in every way, but attached and therefore ultimately
unattainable. Derek had driven the need for secrecy at her from all sides.
“Don’t
trust anyone but yourself, darling,” he would say. “You only have to tell one
person and before you know where you are everyone will hear about it, and if
word gets back to Linda she would kill us both.”
She wished
she could be honest with her friends, even if they thought it peculiar, even
disgusting, for her to be involved with a married man older than her own
father. She had not dared to tell Derek that she had confided in her closest
friend, Louisa. Jane looked forward to visiting Louisa, knowing she could trust
her not to gossip about the affair, or condemn her as a two-timing slag. Jane
knew that it was Derek who had everything on his side: a pretty, discreet young
woman, who adored him, was available at the shortest notice, and made no
demands on him to leave his wife. She had entered the relationship knowing that
he would never break up his marriage. In the heady days of their blossoming
love, it had been enough just to be with him when he had the time to spare. She
worshipped the ground he walked on, but as she grew older she wanted something
more lasting than an affair, which, in the end, would have no meaning in the
grand scheme of things. With a start she saw
Derek appear on the television screen and jumped up from her chair to turn the
volume up once again. She could not bear to miss a moment of the programme. “I
have pleasure in introducing the celebrated tenor, Derek Bailey in our series
Musical Memories, Michael Broadstairs was saying. “Hello, Michael,” Derek
replied, “How very kind of you to invite me on to your programme tonight. It
has been such ages since last we met…”
She heard
his first few words in that beautifully modulated voice she knew so intimately.
She reflected on the five years she had spent with him, and marvelled, with
just a tinge of bitterness, at how much futile joy she had crammed into her
life in that time.
The three women of
the past and present who had shared various parts of Derek Bailey’s life and
moulded in different ways, felt quickening heartbeats at the sound of his voice
which had altered little with the passing years. His recording of Questa e Quella from Rigoletto in English was playing in the
background:
Though with one girl I was happy this
morning,
Yet tomorrow, yet tomorrow, another I’ll
find.
