Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

Sophie had written to both her parents begging them to come and see Abattoir. Even without her tambourine she felt that her role as a Salvation Army girl, largely hidden by a poke bonnet and surrounded by twelve others, would make it possible for her not to disgrace herself-and if they both came then perhaps-just perhaps-they would find that they still cared for each other and buy a house which would always be there and they would move into it, all together like a proper family.

For once the answers to her letters had come quite quickly; her mother was certain she couldn’t come because she was still filming in Ireland, and the next day Czernowitz had written to say that her father was extremely sorry but he was delaying his return from America.

Her disappointment had brought the usual stricken look to her eyes. What if no one came ever again, what if the school emptied and she was forgotten? But Ellen had not been interested in this train of thought. “If the school empties and you’re forgotten I’ll take you to Gowan Terrace and we’ll go to the zoo and see lots of Charlie Chaplin films and make fudge.”

“I don’t know why you want them to come,” said Leon. “It’s an awful play.”

But he too had responded to Sophie’s distress, extending the role he had written for her so that in addition to being terrified in her hovel she was allowed to walk slowly into the lake, like Ludwig of Bavaria, and drown.

He was setting up this tricky shot during a gap in Abattoir rehearsals when Sophie, wading through the bulrushes, stopped suddenly and said: “Goodness! Here comes Cleopatra in her barge!”

The children who had been resting in the grass sat up. The boat making its way in a stately manner towards them did indeed have something regal about it, though it was only a motor boat hired from the village. The woman who lay back against the cushions was amply built, dressed in a flowing, flowery garment with matching turban, and held a fringed parasol in a gloved hand. Behind her, wearing black, sat some kind of lesser person, probably a maid, hanging on to the collar of a small and excited dog.

“She doesn’t look like a parent,” said Flix-and this was true.

Parents coming to see how their children were faring at the school seldom approached with that air of grandeur and self-assurance. They were usually thin people in corduroy or ethnic skirts and looked apprehensive.

As they drew close to the castle, Brigitta’s hopes rose. Too vain to wear the spectacles she needed, she could make out only the beauty of the pink building and a number of children moving about in the grounds. Altenburg’s devotion to children, his conviction that they could be taught to sing or play from infancy, had irritated her in Vienna, but made it more than likely that he should be lying low in a place like this. She had left Staub and Benny in the villa that Stallenbach had procured for them, wanting to be alone when she ran her old lover to ground. Now, as the boat slowed down by the landing stage, she promised herself that she would utter no word of reproach when she came face to face with Marcus. She would beg his help in the matter of the gala and he would not deny her, she was sure. Then when he was in Vienna and Rosenkavalier was safely over she would show him Staub’s libretto and their true collaboration would begin. Cosima von Bülow and Wagner… Alma Schindler and Gustav Mahler… George Sand and Chopin… there was nothing absurd in the comparison. Cosima had cut off her long, long hair and thrown it into Wagner’s grave, thought Brigitta, fingering her short permed hair under the turban. If Marcus came back, if he set Staub’s opera, she might even be prepared to huddle.

The children waiting on the landing stage were larger than she had expected and did not look salubrious, but that only made it more likely that Marcus was here.

“Can we help you?”’ said the only one that looked even remotely clean and decent, a girl with dark pigtails.

“I am Brigitta Seefeld,” the diva announced, not troubling to introduce her maid. “And I am looking for Herr Altenburg, the composer, who I believe is working here.”

Sophie and the others, in all innocence, shook their heads. Only Leon stiffened and looked wary.

“There’s no one here called that,” said Sophie.

“Definitely not,” agreed Flix, making her way towards the little dog.

But Brigitta was not so easily put off. “Take me to your headmaster,” she ordered. “Tell him that Brigitta Seefeld is here.”

As the children led her towards the steps, Leon took Sophie aside.

“Go in and find Ellen,” he whispered. “Tell her Brigitta Seefeld is here and looking for someone called Altenburg. Go on, quickly.”

Sophie, without question, turned and ran towards the kitchen. She did not pause to wonder why Ellen had to be told of this visit or its purpose: to fetch Ellen at all times was second nature now to the children in the school.

She found Ellen teaching the new kitchen hand how to slice angelica into interesting shapes. He was hoping to be a chef and had only been here a few days but everyone liked him: he was quick to learn and funny and would help with anything, indoors and out.

“Ellen, a great big blonde woman has just arrived; she’s called Brigitta Seefeld and she’s looking for someone called Altenburg. A musician. Leon said I should tell you.”

Ellen looked up, the egg whisk still in her hand. At the same time a small exclamation from the trainee chef made them both turn. Usually so neat and careful, he had cut his finger.

“Where is she now?”’ asked Ellen.

“Leon’s taking her to see Bennet; we told her there wasn’t anyone like that here but she didn’t believe us.” But Sophie was staring at the new assistant, who had gone as white as his overalls. There were people who couldn’t stand the sight of blood, she knew that. It was nothing to do with cowardice; it was just one of those things. “Shall I go and get some sticking plaster from your box?”’ she offered.

Ellen shook her head. “No, I’ll see to it. Will you go to Bennet and tell him I’ll bring coffee and cakes to his study. I’ll be there in ten minutes if he would just wait there. Would you tell him that?”’

Sophie nodded and sped off-and Ellen went to shut the door of the scullery in which Frau Tauber was washing up.

“She knows you, of course.”

“Yes.” He was biting his lip. She could see the effort he was making to control himself.

“Well then, we must hide you,” she said, fetching a roll of plaster and some lint. She bound up the finger, thinking. Then: “Didn’t you offer to stand in for David Langley at the rehearsal?”’ And as he nodded: “In that case, our troubles are over. You’ll be as safe as houses there.”

Brigitta’s route towards the headmaster’s study, escorted by Leon and followed by Ursula and Janey, was unfortunate. Unaware that she had been spared Chomsky’s appendix scar, she shuddered as the biology teacher, virtually naked, ran past her with his net, searching for dragonfly larvae in the mud. An uncouth boy with dirty feet dropped from a tree, bumped into her, swore and disappeared.

“That’s Frank,” explained Janey helpfully. “His father’s a famous philosopher and he’s been through five psychoanalysts.”

“I’ll wait outside,” said Ufra firmly, and led the dog away towards the kitchen garden.

As she passed the open doors of classrooms and rehearsal rooms, Brigitta’s certainty that she had found Marcus’ hiding place began to evaporate. In one a sinewy female in a leotard was exhorting a group of sulky children to give vent to their viscerality; in another a mustachioed woman in flannels was demonstrating the Primal Scream. A child lay on the floor in the corridor, reading a book and eating a banana. Surely even Marcus with his passion for freedom and tolerance, would not be able to work in this kind of bedlam?