Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

But when she reached Bennet’s study she became more hopeful again. The headmaster was a cultivated and good-mannered man who spoke excellent German and was properly dressed. His walls were lined with books, and the bust of Shakespeare encouraged her; Marcus had set six of the Sonnets for tenor, strings and percussion when he first came to Vienna, boring her with eulogies about the verse.

“I am Brigitta Seefeld—”’ she began-and frowned angrily as the boy who had put himself forward all along, had the impertinence to interrupt her.

“Madame Seefeld has come because she thinks Herr Altenburg has been here,” he said quickly. “I’ve told her he hasn’t, but—”’

“Leon is right, Madame Seefeld. There has been no one here of that name,” said Bennet with perfect truthfulness, giving Leon a reassuring nod.

There was a brief knock at the door and Sophie entered with Ellen’s message, “She won’t be more than ten minutes, she said.”

Bennet nodded and sent the children away. “Ellen is our matron-and in charge of the kitchen too. An excellent woman.”

That Marek would want his stay in Hallendorf kept secret even now, Bennet was certain. Only three people knew his identity: Ellen, Leon and himself, and it was clear that the boy could be trusted.

Meanwhile he was in effect looking at a kind of Toscanini’s Aunt. Brigitta Seefeld was known all over Europe as a brilliant singer, a doyenne of the operatic stage. Two years ago when Franz Lerner had produced an opera based on The Pied Piper he had written to invite her to Hallendorf and she had not even troubled to reply. Now she was here and all he had to show her was Abattoir. But was it “all”? Was he being unduly pessimistic? A premiere of a Brecht play directed by a man who had studied with Meyerhold and Stanislavsky…

Motioning her to his slightly disintegrating leather armchair, he set himself to be charming and flatter her.

“As you can imagine, this is a great honour for Hallendorf. If you’d given me a little warning we could have shown you some of the workshops in progress. Unfortunately our music is at present our weakest point. Our excellent music teacher has gone to fight in Spain and so far we’ve not found a replacement.”

“I understand Professor Steiner lives across the lake.” Brigitta was still suspicious. “We called at his house but he seems to be away. Couldn’t he help you?”’

“I wouldn’t trouble a man of such eminence,” said Bennet truthfully. “Or of his age. Some of the children here are a little… untutored.”

“Yes, I see that. But Altenburg has been seen with Professor Steiner. I find it hard to believe that he never came here. He is interested in working with children.”

Bennet gave a wi/l smile. “I assure you, we would have welcomed any help of that sort with open arms.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Ellen entered bearing a silver tray, a coffee pot, and a plate of biscuits.

“Ah-Vanilla Kipferl! I think you won’t do better than these even at Demels,” said Bennet.

Ellen set down the tray and smiled at the woman described so fulsomely in Kendrick’s concert programme. Seefeld seemed middle-aged to her; there was a puffiness under the eyes and in Ellen’s opinion she was not so much voluptuous as fat. But the eyes themselves were a bright periwinkle blue, the hair under the turban still golden-above all Seefeld had the assurance, the presence, that comes from years of fame. That the collaboration between her and Marek had been “fruitful” in all senses of the word, seemed all too likely.

Brigitta in her turn examined Ellen with sudden interest. The girl was remarkably pretty; the careless curls, the big gold-brown eyes and soft mouth-and for an instant she thought that maybe she had found the reason for Marcus’ sojourn in the neighbourhood. But that was absurd. She was a below stairs person, she worked in the kitchens. He might have flirted with such a girl but that she could seriously interest him, that he could write music for her was absurd. Even Marcus did not write music for cooks.

The coffee however was excellent, the Vanilla Kipferl delicious. When they were finished, Bennet invited her to the theatre where a rehearsal for the play had just resumed.

“The theatre was built at the same time as the castle-in 1743. It’s a remarkably pretty one; the work of Grunwald von Heilgen…”

He elaborated, and Brigitta suppressed a yawn. “Very well. But I should like to look over the school first. I should like to see everything.”

That Marcus, for no reason she could imagine, was concealed in the building, was an idea that would not entirely go away.

But when they reached the theatre and found the Abattoir rehearsal in full spate, Brigitta finally realised that wherever her former lover was it could not be here.

Chomsky’s three-tiered structure was in place at last and FitzAllan was attempting to get everyone on stage together: the capitalists on top, the Salvation Army girls in the middle and the workers on the bottom.

Things were not going well. The Salvation Army girls came on too soon, were yelled at and vanished. The capitalists, rolling their dice, looked green, contemplating the distance to the ground- and there was trouble with the carcasses. There was always trouble with the carcasses. FitzAllan had insisted that the headless cadavers, completely swathed in muslin, were played by real people who could neither see nor be seen, and the opportunities for disaster were endless.

The arrival of the famous diva brought the director unctuously to her side.

“This is an honour indeed,” he said in excellent German, bowing over her hand, and led her towards the footlights. “Carry on,” he shouted to the increasingly confused children, and a disorientated slaughterhouse worker crashed into a dimly lit side of beef, was sworn at, and veered off at an angle. “As you see, we are still feeling our way a little,” said FitzAllan.

Brigitta said she did indeed see this. She made however one last attempt before making her escape. “Who does the music-presumably there is music?”’

FitzAllan gave a modest smile. “I have endeavoured to fill the gap left by the departure of Franz Lerner. Perhaps you’d like to hear one of the workers’ songs? I’ve adapted it myself from one I found in a Communist manifesto.”

He clapped his hands and those of the children who heard him came to the front of the stage. “We’re going straight into the Song of Starvation at the end of Act Two. I’ll give you the note.

Ready?”’

Brigitta listened and the last of her doubts were laid to rest. Not in a hundred years could Marcus have countenanced a noise like that. Turning, she found the dark, intense boy who had met her at the landing stage standing beside her.

“If Herr von Altenburg could hear that, he’d turn in his grave, wouldn’t you say?”’ he whispered.

Much as she wanted to snub the child, she could only agree.

“The premiere is at the end of July. If you happened to be in the district we should be most honoured,” said Bennet.

“Thank you, but my calendar for July is very full,” she said.

She found Ufra and Puppchen already in the launch. Puppchen was passionately chewing a large leather gardening glove. “He found it in one of the sheds,” said Ufra. “It belonged to the handyman. He’s left now, so I thought he might as well have it.”

“It’s disgusting,” said Brigitta, as the object became covered in the little dog’s saliva. “Take it away and throw it into the lake.”

But Puppchen wouldn’t be parted from his treasure. He growled and showed his crooked teeth and he was still slobbering over it when the boat arrived in the village, and the local taxi bore Brigitta off to the villa so kindly provided by the count.