Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

So Kendrick was sent for, and took Volume Three of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu for the train and a packet of Milk of Magnesia tablets, for a summons to Crowthorpe always gave him indigestion, and took the train north. At Carlisle, as always happened when he travelled home, it began to rain.

In the old Buick which his mother had sent for him, he watched the mist swirling round the hills, heard the forlorn bleating of the black-faced sheep, and the sinister rushing of the brown streams running almost at flood level, and wondered what he had done. Kendrick had his own income, inherited from a distant relative who had been sorry for the unwanted little boy, and owned his flat in Pimlico, so there was not really much that his mother could do to him, but logic played little part in Kendrick’s perception of Patricia Frobisher.

It was not until after dinner, which he took alone with his mother in the freezing dining room, that he gathered why he had been summoned.

“I hope you can manage to have a sensible conversation about this, Kendrick,” she said, when the maid had delivered herself of the blancmange and retreated, her duty done. “I don’t want any hysteria or panic. But it seems possible that there is going to be a war.”

Kendrick put down his napkin, suddenly as pale as the pudding in front of him. In his head Zeppelins exploded into flame, planes zoomed, children ran screaming from their demolished houses.

“Do you really think so?”’ he managed to stammer.

“I don’t know. Chamberlain is doing his best to avert it, but we must always look at possibilities unflinchingly.”

“Yes,” said Kendrick, and thought longingly of Marcel Proust, his hero, who had spent twelve years in a cork-lined room working on his masterpiece. Strictly speaking this could not be regarded as an unflinching way of carrying on, but of course he had been a genius.

“As you know, Roland is coming home, but if there’s any trouble he’s sure to join up and William is now an experienced pilot. If anything happens to them you will become the owner of Crowthorpe. Nothing can be done about this.”

Mother and son gazed at each other over the enormous dining table, both equally appalled by the prospect. Huge bulls pursued Kendrick in his mind as he tried to give orders to the farm manager; the wheels of threshing machines whirred, blowing chaff into his asthmatic lungs; girls on large horses rode up the drive and despised him…

“So it has become necessary for you to do your duty, Kendrick. You must marry.”

Kendrick blinked at his mother through his thick glasses. She wanted him to marry. And at the word “marry” there came into his mind, erasing the terrifying prospects of war and agriculture, Ellen’s lovely face, the soft mouth, the gentle eyes and floating hair.

“I should like to marry,” he said, “but there is only one woman I am prepared to consider.”

Patricia stared at her son, who had spoken with unexpected certainty.

“Who is that?”’ she asked.

“Her name is Ellen Carr. She’s working in Austria at the moment but her home is in London. She is a wonderful person.”

“What is she working at? What does anyone do in Austria?”’

“She is a matron in a school. But she also cooks. She is highly trained.”

Patricia controlled herself with an effort of will. “A cook! I take it you are joking. Even you would not imagine that a Frobisher could marry a cook?”’

But the image of Ellen had given Kendrick unexpected courage.

“There is no one else I am prepared to marry,” he repeated. “But she has refused me.”

“Refused you! Good heavens, what is a cook doing to refuse you? Does she know who you are?”’

“Yes. But she is not in love with me. Of course a lot of people have proposed to her, but I shall never give up hope. Never.”

Making a heroic effort, Patricia tried to envisage a cook who had been much proposed to and did not want to espouse a Frobisher.

“What is her background?”’

“Her mother is a doctor. She was a Norchester. There are three sisters who were all suffragettes. They are admirable women. Ellen’s father was killed in the last war.”

“Good, not the Norchester gals? Phyllis and Charlotte the third one called?”’

“That’s right. Well, well-Gussie Norchester’s gals-mad as hatters, all of them, tying themselves to railings and God knows what. Gussie had a dreadful time with them-they wouldn’t be presented or behave normally in any way.”

But the aberrant behaviour of the girls didn’t seem to matter, Kendrick found, for Gussie Norchester had been the niece of Lord Avondale and entirely acceptable. If the cooking girl was her grand-daughter the whole thing was obviously another eccentricity and could be overlooked.

“Perhaps you have not been firm enough,” said Mrs Frobisher. “Girls like to be dominated. Why don’t you go out there-to Austria-and press your suit. If she knows that I am not against the match it might make a difference.”

“I did wonder,” said Kendrick. He had indeed wondered very much, for the goings-on at Hallendorf as read out in Gowan Terrace had disturbed him increasingly. Ellen had written light-heartedly about Chomsky and the rest, but Kendrick was beginning to have nightmares in which his beloved was subjected to advances by naked metalwork professors or pinned to the wall by red-haired Welshmen. “Perhaps I could ask her to meet me in Vienna?”’

“A good idea,” said Mrs Frobisher.

She did not care for waltzes, but was aware that they were considered beneficial for romance.

But Kendrick’s plans for his visit to Vienna were cast in a much more serious vein. If he was to lure Ellen to the Austrian capital, it must be with a worthwhile programme of serious sightseeing as well as visits to concerts, art galleries and museums. Returning home, he was soon closeted in the London Library where the delights of the Austrian capital could be carefully studied.

There was so much to see: the churches of Fischer d’Erlach (both the Elder and the Younger), at least a dozen equestrian statues of significance and a leprosy sanatorium in the suburbs which was said to represent the pinnacle of Secessionist architecture. There was the Hofburg, of course, and the vault of the Capuchin church containing the bodies of the Hapsburg Emperors, but not, apparently, their hearts and livers, for which it was necessary to go to the crypt of St Stephen’s cathedral. And of course there were all the places where the great composers had been born or died or simply resided. Schubert’s spectacles could be visited in Nussdorf, and Beethoven’s ear trumpet in the Stadtsmuseum, though the attribution of Mozart’s billiard cue in a cafe in Grinzing was seriously disputed.

Best of all would be if he could take Ellen to the opera. After all, the Vienna Opera was the glory of Europe. Surely she would not refuse to come if he could offer her seats for a performance there?

Calling in at his favourite travel agency, one which specialised in Cultural Tours, he spoke to a helpful girl who showed him the programme for the Staatsoper and there, on 12 July, after the end of the official season, Kendrick found a cultural gem that no one could resist: Brigitta Seefeld, Vienna’s reigning diva, was singing in Rosenkavalier.

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get tickets,” said the girl. “And if I can they’ll be terribly expensive. It’s a gala and they always put up the prices for them.”

But Kendrick, imagining himself beside his beloved as Seefeld renounced her young lover and sent him into the arms of a foolish young girl, said boldly that money was no object. She was to get tickets at any price and let him know. For the truth was that even if Ellen might prefer to investigate Demels patisserie or the Nash Markt, he himself would do anything to hear Brigitta Seefeld sing. And he would be able to tell Ellen more about the inspiring relationship between the diva and Marcus Altenburg, for he had done a lot of research on the composer’s life since he realised that he had been at school with one of the most highly regarded musicians of the day.