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Miller H Caldwell, click here
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continues
Chapter 8
If father’s final words to me were of little concern to mother, it should have been of less concern to me. Yet the thought lingered and niggled. Madge was right. There could be no answer.
Mother bucked the trend of ‘time in black’ and found my presence gave her enthusiasm for her work. My company in the evenings to learn of the situation developing in Germany and how Otto, his aunt and uncle were coping pleased her. I had received more letters from Germany that week.
They spoke of a hysteria gripping the nation. Those who fought against it were ruthlessly treated. Karl and Renate spoke of the wonder of the rallies but I noticed when he wrote the word rally it was in smaller text. Otto had thrown himself into the army officer training and had many friends. His letters always ended with his flourishing Otto signature and heartfelt, undying love.
As light faded I asked mother to play the piano which stood in the corner of the room with its lid closed.
‘Hadn’t you noticed dear? These days are over.’
‘You don’t play anymore?’ I asked.
Madge laid out her hands before me. Her fingers were more fused together with arthritis than I had acknowledged before. I held both of her hands for a brief moment, massaging her fingers.
‘Then let me have a go. It’s been a while.’
Musicians who play by ear adapt well to the music. Those who played by reading the music lacked that ability but often played with perfection, I recalled. I was certainly of the latter. The first book of music found in the piano stool was Burlington Bertie by Harry B Norris. Madge tapped her knees to the waltz.
I played a few more tunes before turning to see mother sitting back with her eyes closed. I walked over to sit beside her. My movement disturbed her.
‘You have stopped? I was enjoying that.’
‘You were dozing. I haven’t played the piano for several months now. In fact I’ve only played my oboe a few times in my room since I’ve been in Elgin.’
‘I know. I’ve heard you. Mind you, you have been somewhat pre-occupied with your family.’
I looked at mother with a generous smile. Widowhood had not taken her by surprise. Father’s final years had required much nursing and that period of her life was over. Now she had her daughter by her side and she felt relaxed.
‘These men that have visited, can I ask who they are?’
‘You mean Messrs Dynes and Thornton?’
‘I think that’s them, yes.’
‘Well, they are officials from the Home office. They want to learn about my time in Germany. How things are over there. That sort of thing.’
‘Yes, I see,’ she chuckled. ‘You’ll never guess.’
‘About what?’
‘I thought they were spies,’ she said.
There was only one appropriate response. I laughed loudly and mother joined in.
Two days later, a woman, a decade older than myself, a woman who stood ram rod straight with a superior look on her face arrived at the hotel. She rang the bell and Fergus attended to her.
‘Mrs Richter,’ he called.
I heard his summons from my room. I opened the door and called down.
‘I’m upstairs, Fergus.’
‘A visitor to see you.’
‘Coming,’ I said taking a glance at my hair in the mirror before descending. I patted my head hiding a few grey hairs above my ears. With each step downstairs, I nervously patted my thighs to remove unwanted flecks of dust. I met her in the reception area.
‘Good morning Frau Richter,’ she said with a smile struggling through her nervousness. ‘I am Miss Maureen Robertson. Can I have a few moments of your time?’
‘Certainly. Would you like some tea?’
‘Only if you are having a cuppa.’
‘Two teas please, Fergus.’
‘In the library?’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
It was the weather we talked about as we walked along the corridor. That subject took us to the door. I opened it. The fire had flames licking logs making them crumble. The heat was immediately noticed and gave an aura of comfort as we sat on either side of the fireplace.
‘Forgive me taking this opportunity to meet you. I suppose I am acting on instinct.’
‘Really? I can’t imagine what’s on your mind.’
‘I conduct the local orchestra.’
‘Ah, now I can place you. I knew I had seen you before.’
Fergus arrived with a trolley. Its wheels jittered as it rolled from the wooden floor to the carpet.
‘I always enjoy coming to the Nethybrig. It’s such a pleasant setting and serves wonderful meals.’
‘Thank you. Mother and her staff do try to please our customers.’
I let Fergus pour the tea. The first sip made me relax. My eyes returned to Miss Robertson.
‘It was a conversation with your mother, which I had yesterday, which pleased me so much.’
‘Goodness knows what mother has been saying,’ I laughed.
‘She told me you played the oboe beautifully.’
My mind raced ahead. Why this conductor was enquiring about my oboe meant one thing only. An invitation to join the orchestra must be forthcoming. I would have to decline to prevent notice being made of my January disappearance.
‘Our wind section is not as strong as our brass. The addition of an oboe would be a wonderful re-alignment. Would you be willing to join the orchestra, Frau Richter?’
‘Please Mrs Richter, Hilda. Not Frau. I am no longer in Germany.’
‘My apologies, I should have been more circumspect. But the orchestra?’
‘My staying here in the hotel is a temporary situation. I will be moving early in the New Year. I’d rather not take up your kind invitation. I’d disappoint the orchestra if I joined and left immediately. I hope you will understand.’
‘Of course, I had no idea about your intention to leave Elgin. I suppose the move will not be local?’
‘No, I’m afraid it will be several miles away.’
‘You say you will be away in January? I mean, you will be here over Christmas?’
‘Yes, I’ll be helping my mother. As you can imagine, it’s a busy time for the hotel.’
‘Then you could join us in the church for the Christmas day service? We will be playing Handel’s Messiah.’
I had fallen into her trap. It would be churlish to refuse. Yet this was a cherished piece of music and what was more, I knew every part of the score.
‘If it’s made clear, I’m only joining while I am staying with my mother then I could join you for the performance.’
‘We’d be delighted Mrs Richter. The wood section will be so pleased.’
In the first week of December I attended the first practice session of the orchestra. I was in a comfort zone which laid my worries at rest. Elgin being the size it was, meant I was not entirely unknown. Too many chose to call me Frau but I left it to Miss Robertson to put that matter straight. The following week was our final rehearsal by which time we were all comfortable with our performances. Mother was pleased that I had integrated myself into the community. So too was Eicke, when I sent a message informing him that troop movements were minimal and insignificant especially around the festive period, at which I would be playing my oboe in an orchestra.
Mr Dynes was not pleased. He told me I should not have been entrenching myself in the community. I had to remain circumspect and, well, aloof and free from attachments. I assured him that I was not intending to find a new husband but he took the view that others might be interested in meeting an eligible and talented widow. That, he told me, would wreck my usefulness and place myself in danger. Spies had to be alert and anticipate situations. Not suppliant and distracted. I felt he softened somewhat when I told him Eicke seemed pleased. It gave him cold comfort. I felt he was anxious for me to be returned to my German family. He had to maximise my worth.
On Christmas day the orchestra filled the chancel space. The Reverend James R. Haddow led the congregation in prayer then settled back in his pulpit to let Miss Robertson get the oratorio underway. I did not know that this had become a popular and annual performance. It did explain why the orchestra was so familiar with the music as well as the vocal soloists whose dresses were seasonally red while the baritone and bass singers wore traditional black dinner suits.
The performance of selected pieces but almost all of the Messiah lasted two hours and for most of that time I was seated behind a music stand as well as behind the string section. There was also a line of spotlights on the orchestra to enhance the view shown to an appreciative audience in the dimly lit pews.
My first solo was playing O Comfort Ye My People. I played it from my seated position and as I thought about the words I was playing, I realised My People came from two lives. As a consequence I played it with such feeling asking my oboe to spread the word that peace surely was still possible.
When my solo performances were finished I received smiles of delight from the cellist and second violins. I knew my performance had gone down well.
There was a fifteen minute break at which we retired from the chancel abandoning our instruments. We headed to the vestry.
‘Hilda that was a wonderful performance.’
‘Thank you Miss Robertson. I did enjoy playing it.’
‘The tone of your instrument pierced the Church’s atmosphere. It was a wonderful moment. In fact, can I ask you to go to the front of the chancel, at the top of the stairs, when you play I Know that My Redeemer Liveth?
‘Oh I am sure that is not necessary. We are all playing well.’
‘Indeed we are. However you will be playing after the choir and full orchestra play the Hallelujah Chorus. They will be excited. The next piece is yours and we need to hold the audience’s attention. I would really like you to come forward to play it.’
I accepted Miss Robertson as a woman who knew her music and how to get the best out of her orchestra and the audience. ‘Then I will of course.’
No one else congratulated me or anyone else during that break, there was still much to do. Refreshed, we filed back into the chancel to take our places and don our instruments while we awaited the audience to settle.
I gave no consideration of my next solo performance but let my feelings be washed along in a majestic wave with the Hallelujah chorus. The final bars were sung by the choir. The music circled around the pews. I then made my way through the orchestra holding my oboe upright to prevent damage.
I paced myself to arrive not too early but in time to compose myself. First I had to get used to the fact I could see more of the appreciative audience. I dampened the instrument’s double read and heard the opening bars. I took a deep breath and began to play I Know that My Redeemer Liveth. My first note trembled. Then I settled into playing this slower movement which required long breaths of air. On these long notes I could not stop myself giving a trembling effect. Then I realised why.
My eyes had strayed to the left transept. It was as full as anywhere else in the church that day but there was no doubt, familiar faces. Mr and Mrs Brown were in attendance.
It was tradition for Mr Haddow and his wife to give the orchestra a glass of sherry and a hot Christmas pie after the performance ended. We retired to the church hall for this reception. There was much chatter but my thoughts were to wonder why the Browns had returned to the area. Perhaps they had never left. Perhaps they had seen or overheard somehow, my conversations with Dynes and Thornton.
‘Hilda, there are a couple waiting to see you in the vestry,’ said Miss Robertson.
‘A London agent I suspect,’ said the bassoonist standing beside me. I looked at him keenly. What did he know about London agents? Why, these words? He saw my stare.
‘Only joking, Mrs Richter. Music agents can give you some tours,’ he said.
I made my way to the vestry where Mr Haddow was entertaining the couple.
‘Goodness, Mr Dynes and Mr Thornton. I was not expecting either of you here.’
‘No, I reflected on what you said last time. I may have over reacted. I think we both enjoyed your performance this evening.’ Mr Dynes nodded his agreement. Mr Haddow tried to make sense of what was being said.
‘I did not see you in the church. But I did see Mr and Mrs Brown. I was not expecting them and I think I had better try to find them before they leave. Would you mind if I did not stay? I’ll keep in touch, I assure you.’
‘I fully understand Hilda. Off you go,’ said Thornton. Dynes looked at Thornton for a brief moment. They would have loved to have seen, but not meet the Browns. Their anxiety was whether the Browns had any knowledge of them. That could never be proved.
‘A sherry gentlemen and a Christmas pie perhaps. I am sure there are plenty left.’
I placed my oboe case under my arm and left with my scarf wound round my neck. My long coat gave me some warmth as did my gloves. If I met the Browns outside, I was sure to become cold. I continued to walk towards the hotel with my ears open for a German whisper. Its tone would determine the conversation. I noticed a few set off home from the church and some called across the street to thank me for my performance. I replied as normally as I could. The hotel was in view. They were sure to contact me tomorrow I thought, as I looked at my watch.
I climbed the steps to the vestibule of the hotel and took off my gloves. Fergus approached looking at me.
‘Your mother is entertaining a couple in the sitting room. I’ve just served them tea. Would you care to join them?’
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘No, not really, not from round here. Oh yes, Mr and Mrs Brown I now recall. Yes, that’s who they are.’
‘Fergus, please bring me a tea too. I’ll be with them.’
My heart missed beat. I strode quickly towards the room. I did not knock. I entered to find Mrs Brown in conversation with mother while Mr Brown listened on with interest.
‘Ah here she comes, accomplished Oboist,’ said Mr Brown.
‘I had no idea that you’d be here. I was not expecting you,’ I said wondering if mother would stay any longer now she knew that they were my acquaintances.
‘We had business up this way and saw the advert for the Messiah’s Hallelujah Chorus was to be performed. It was on the church notice board, the library and goodness knows where else. One of Germany’s best musicians,’ said Mr Brown.
‘Wasn’t Handel English dear?’
‘Both mother. He was born in Germany and spent his first forty two years in Germany. Then he came to Britain and took out citizenship. He was British for the rest of his thirty two years,’ I informed her.
‘More German than English then,’ mother concluded as Fergus brought my tea.
‘I had forgotten you played the oboe. I had been told by our mutual friend,’ said Mrs Brown lowering her head at the same time raising her eyebrows.
I took that to mean we should be in discussion without mother’s presence.
‘Mother, I wonder if I could ask you ....to....’
‘I understand when it’s time to leave. I’m sure you will want to talk longer. Can I take your cups?’
Mother took the Browns cups and placed them on the try which had brought them. I held on to my cup.
‘Not finished, yet,’ I said as she made her way out. With her right foot she managed to close the door just as I was preparing to close it after her.
‘Well, as I said this is a surprise.’
‘A pleasant surprise I trust?’ Mr Brown placed his left hand into his breast pocket and brought out an envelope.
‘This is for you.’
‘More instructions?’
‘No, not instructions. Just a little gratitude and to see you through the next week or so.’
I felt the envelope. It seemed to contain a wodge of money.
‘One hundred and fifty, I hope you will find.’
‘Pounds or Marks?’
‘On this occasion pounds sterling. Your next payment you will receive in marks in Hamburg.’
‘I see, I am grateful to you.’
‘No, you are doing well. You are integrating into the community, gaining its support and getting to hear the concerns of the locals. That’s the information we need to know. Are they up for a fight or just muttering?’
‘You mean you came up from London just to give me this money?’
‘Who told you we came from London?’ asked Mr Brown looking at me with concentrated eyes. It dawned on me the answer to that question was Dynes.
‘You have brought money for me. I have not seen you for several weeks. Perhaps you have had contact with your London Embassy. That was what I thought.’
Mr Brown’s expression was relaxed. ‘You have remarkable logic, just what we need in one of our promising agents. Well done.’
‘You mean you came here only to hand over the money?’
‘Now don’t disappoint me so soon. Yes, that is true and to hear you play but one spy does not tell another what they are doing. There is much work up here for us to do in the north of Scotland, further north of here.’
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Web Site:
The Reluctant Spy
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