Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

And then, like a hand reaching down from heaven (or from the bell tower, where the brave dentist was perched on a joist and the vertiginous violinist played gallantly on) came Marek’s music, a high, pure skein of sound in which all the themes reached resolution, drawing the girl up and up for her apotheosis.

And as Sister Felicity’s flowers drifted down from the heights, caught in a moment of enchantment in the spotlights, there came from those who packed the body of the church-not clapping, not cheering — but a sigh that seemed to be one sigh… and then it was done.

“We’ll do it again, won’t we?”’ they promised each other-Frau Becker and Jean-Pierre, the butcher and Freya, everyone hugging everyone else… forgetting the troops mustered on the border, forgetting the final letter from Bennet’s stockbroker. The old woman who’d said it would rain was kissing Sabine, Chomsky and the greengrocer wandered arm in arm, and the reporters from the local newspapers clustered round Lieselotte, photographing her with her bridesmaids, her animals… “This won’t be the last time,” they told each other. “We’ll do it every single year.”

There was a party, of course; the kind of party that just happens but happens rather better if there is someone in the background, putting butter on rolls, opening bottles of wine, of lemonade… fetching hoarded delicacies out of the fridge.

Ellen had excused herself from the proceedings and for an hour or more had been sending plates of food up to the terrace with its strings of fairy lights, and the music playing on the gramophone now so that everyone could dance. The dentist was dancing with Ursula; Chomsky with Frau Becker’s aunt — and Leon’s father with Sophie.

“And if her mother and father had come it would have been a miracle, I suppose,” Ellen had said to the headmaster, watching Sophie’s vivid face, “and there aren’t a lot of those.”

“No. But it might work out best like this. Leon’s parents have invited her to stay in London; they’re good people. She may be someone who has to get her warmth from outside the family.”

Later Bennet had taken her aside and said: “We owe this to you, Ellen. If you hadn’t befriended Lieselotte and made the links with the village, none of this would have happened.”

She had shaken her head-yet it was true that some of what she had imagined that morning by the well and spoken of to Marek, had materialised this day. People had come from everywhere… had received with hospitality what was offered… the lion, just a little, had lain down with the lamb.

Children came to the kitchen, offering to help, but she only loaded them with food and sent them upstairs again. She was content to be alone and glad to be out of the way, for she knew all too well what was happening-not on the noisy terrace, but in the hastily erected marquee in the jousting ground where Bennet, with the assistance of the landlord and chef of the Krone, was entertaining the most extraordinary collection of Toscanini Aunts ever assembled in Hallendorf.

It had been the most amazing and unexpected thing: now, when Bennet had abandoned all hope of interesting anyone in the significance of the school, Aunts-and indeed Uncles-of the highest stature had appeared from everywhere. The director of the Festspielhaus in Geneva had been seen lumbering over the muddy boards at the lake’s edge, scrambling for a place in the lighter which would take him to the boat. The manager of the Bruckner Theatre in Linz, to whom Bennet had written vainly two years before, had puffed his way up to the grotto, writing in his notebook- and Madame Racelli, of the Academy of the Performing Arts in Paris, had cantered in her high heels and silver fox stole across the meadows, so as to miss no moment of what was going on.

The kitchen door opened and Lieselotte came in. She had changed into her dirndl, but the flush of happiness was still on her cheeks.

“I’ve come to help,” she said, reaching for her apron and tying it round her waist.

“No, you haven’t. You’re going straight back up to dance with all your suitors and be the belle of the ball. This is your night, Lieselotte, and I don’t want you down here.”

Lieselotte took not the slightest notice. She had taken up a knife and begun to slice the rolls. “We need more of the salami ones- Chomsky’s eaten three already.”

“Lieselotte, I am your supervisor and I order you to go back and dance,” said Ellen. Lieselotte put down her knife.

“Yes, you are my supervisor, but also, I think… you are my friend? And I want to be with you tonight.”

But this was a mistake. Ellen’s defences crumbled; tears gathered in her eyes-and nothing could be sillier, for she had known-everybody knew — that Marek was leaving the following day, that his boat sailed in a week-and that Brigitta Seefeld, the mightiest and most redoubtable of the uninvited “Aunts”, had come to fetch him.

Marek’s abrupt departure from Vienna had infuriated Benny and Staub, puzzled the musical establishment, and caused Brigitta to erupt into a series of violent scenes.

“How dare he treat me like that?”’ she raged. “He begs to spend the night with me and then goes off as if I was a plaything!”

Then, about a week after his disappearance and shortly before he was due to sail, Benny called at Brigitta’s apartment in an obvious state of excitement.

“Do you know where he is?”’ he asked her, shooing away the masseuse.

“Where?”’

“In Hallendorf. Where they all swore they’d never heard of him. And do you know what he’s doing?”’

“What?”’

“Writing music for a local pageant. For some obscure saint called Anabella or something.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true. I had it from Ferdie Notar at the Central who heard it from the clarinettist of the Philharmonic who heard it from the director of the Klagenfurt Academy.”

“But that’s ridiculous. Marcus hates all that sort of thing-villagers with fat legs and mud and everything going wrong.” Brigitta’s mind was racing. Was he writing her music for some female yokel with blonde plaits and cow’s eyes?

“I checked with the Klagenfurt tourist board.”

“I’m going back, Benny,” said Brigitta imperiously.

“Me too,” said Benny. “I smell gold.”

Unfortunately he was not the only one. There were too many rivals brought by rumours of Altenburg’s involvement in the proceedings. The director of the Festspielhaus, sitting across the table, had a nasty glitter in his eyes.

But with Brigitta to help him, with her influence over Marcus, he was bound to succeed. Staub wasn’t much use-he’d insisted on coming but he thought of nothing except his libretto. It was Brigitta who would carry the day.

“I tell you, Marcus, the piece is made for the States,” he said now. “They’d gobble it up. A music theatre piece with a message… You might think they’d object to God and peasants and so on, but I promise it’s not so. People always turn to religion when they think there might be a war.”

Marek smiled at him lazily. “That’s very kind of them-but I’m afraid what they think about God or peasants has nothing to do with anything. The music for the pageant stays here. It was written for these people at this moment of time. They can use it again or not, but it’s theirs.”

Benny put down his glass. “For heaven’s sake, Marcus, be reasonable. Don’t you see how you’d be helping them here if your piece became known all over the world? Think of Oberammergau. You’ve only got to score that theme you wrote for the saint for Brigitta and it would be a sensation.”

“Possibly,” Marek agreed, but he did not seem disposed to continue the conversation, and the director of the Festspielhaus now leant across the table to put in his own bid.