The Morning Gift

A surprising number of people had come to the Albert Hall for the finals of the Bootheby Piano Competition. Of the six finalists, three had played the previous day: one of the Russians, a Swede, and Leblanc whom Heini particularly feared. Today – the last day – would start with the pretty American girl, Daisy MacLeod, playing the Tchaikovsky and end with the tall Russian, Selnikoff, playing the Rachmaninoff – and in between, came Heini. Heini had been disappointed when they drew lots: he had hoped to play at the end. Whatever people said, the last performer always stayed in people’s minds.

The orchestra entered, then the conductor. To get Berthold to conduct the BBC Symphonia for the concertos was a real coup for the organizers. Heini, rehearsing with them in the morning, had been over the moon.

On Ruth’s other side, Leonie turned to smile at her daughter. She had come down from Manchester and meant to stay till the exams the following week. Her anxiety about Ruth, who was clearly unwell, was underlain by a deeper wretchedness for she knew that if Heini won it meant America and the idea of losing Ruth was like a stone on her chest.

‘You must not show it,’ Kurt had said. ‘You must want it. She’ll be safe there and nothing matters except that.’

Since March, when Hitler, not content with the Sudetenland, had marched into Prague, few people believed any more in peace.

The whole row was filled with Ruth’s friends and relations. Beside Pilly sat Janet and Huw and Sam. The Ph.D. student from the German Department was there, and Mishak and Hilda . . . even Paul Ziller had come and that was an honour. Ziller was very preoccupied these days; the chauffeur from Northumberland was pursuing him, begging to be heard – there was pressure from all sides for him to lead a new quartet.

It was hot in the hall with its domed roof. Leonie, dressed even at three in the afternoon like a serious concert-goer in a black skirt and starched white blouse, fanned herself with the programme. And now Daisy MacLeod came onto the platform with her dark hair tied back with a ribbon and her pretty blue dress and shy smile, and a storm of clapping greeted her. The Tchaikovsky suited her. She was very young; there were rough passages and once or twice she lost the tempo, but Berthold eased her back and the performance was entirely pleasing. Whether she won or not, she was assured of a career.

The applause was loud and prolonged, bouquets were carried onto the stage; the judges wrote things down and nodded. Ruth liked Daisy, liked her playing, but: ‘Oh, God, don’t let her win.’

And now the culmination of all those weeks of worry and work. Heini came on the platform with his light, springing gait; bowed. Ruth had searched the flower shops of Hampstead for the perfect camellia, Leonie had ironed each ruffle on his shirt, but the charm, the appealing smile, owed nothing to their ministrations. His platform manner had always been one of his strong points, and Ruth looked up at the box where Mantella sat with Jacques Fleury, the impresario, who as much as the judges held the keys to heaven or hell. Mantella was important, but Fleury was god – he could waft Heini over to the States, could turn him into a virtuoso and star.

Berthold raised his baton; the orchestra went into the tutti . . . the theme was stated gently by the violins, taken up by the woodwind . . .

And everybody smiled. Mantella had been right. The audience was ready for this music.

When the angels sing for God they sing Bach, but when they sing for pleasure they sing Mozart, and God eavesdrops.

Heini waited, looking down at the keys in that moment of stillness she had always loved. Then he came in, stating the theme so rightly, so joyfully . . . and she let out her breath because he was playing marvellously. Obviously he had been nervous only to the necessary degree: now he was purged of everything except this limpid, tender, consoling music which flowed through him from what had to be heaven if there was a heaven anywhere. He had performed this miracle for her the first time she heard him and she would never tire of it, never cease to be grateful. All her past was contained in the notes he played – all her life in the city she once thought would be her home for ever. No wonder she had been punished when she forsook that world.

The melody climbed and soared, and she climbed with it, out of her sadness, her wretchedness, the discomforts of her body . . . out and up and up. Ah God, if only one could stay up there; if only one could live like music sounded – if only the music never stopped!