Louis de Bernieres - Notwithstanding - Stories from an English Village

THERE WERE TWO Morris Minor saloons, both grey, parked in the small driveway of Jenny Farhoumand’s house as well as a large Hillman Hunter. The latter belonged to Jenny’s husband, who was an auctioneer with Messenger May Baverstock in Godalming, and the Morris Minors belonged to Jenny herself and to the music teacher at the public school. He had come round on a Saturday afternoon in spring, to rehearse a few duets by Devienne for a little concert in the church, in order to raise money for a new set of steps up from the church to the road. Neither of them were believers, but the churchgoers were always prepared to consider outsiders to be honorary members of the congregation when it came to fund-raising. There was not much of a repertoire for clarinet and oboe, and so they were playing flute duets. Brian, the clarinettist, was manfully transposing on sight, and Jenny was playing her flute parts on the oboe. Sometimes it sounded quite good and sometimes very strange.

‘It’s lucky that Devienne is dead,’ said Brian. ‘I can’t imagine what he’d think of us doing this.’

‘I think it’s wonderful, how you transpose like that,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t know how you do it. You must have to split your brain in half.’

‘It does your head in after a while,’ he admitted, ‘but you get used to it, and the exercise is probably very good for you. I’m hoping it’ll make me more intelligent.’

‘Why don’t you use a C clarinet? Wouldn’t that be the really intelligent option?’

‘I haven’t got one. They don’t sound quite as nice as a B flat.’

‘Why don’t you get one, though?’

‘Maybe I should start saving up my pocket money. That’s not a bad idea, actually.’

‘Then you can save up for a basset horn. I’m sure they pay you masses at that posh school.’

‘Yes, and pigs fly. I’d love a basset horn, though.’

‘By the way,’ said Jenny, ‘can you see the kids anywhere?’

‘They’re all in a heap, fighting on the lawn,’ said Brian, looking through the window. ‘Suzie has just bitten Annie, and Andrew is crying, and the dog is digging in the flower bed, and your husband is doing something to the lawnmower. By the way that his lips are moving, I would guess that he’s swearing. I can’t see the cat, but I think the rabbit’s got out. There’s a black one in the vegetable patch.’

‘All’s right with the world, then,’ said Jenny. ‘Shall we try something else?’

They were halfway through a fairly vigorous allegro when Suzie, aged six, blonde, tousled and filthy, came running in. ‘Mummy, Mummy, there’s a strange man outside, and he was listening under the window. I saw him, I saw him!’

‘Have you told Daddy?’

‘Yes, I did tell Daddy, and Daddy’s got him and he’s going to kill him.’

‘Oh dear, really?’

‘He’s got a big spanner, Mummy.’

‘I suppose we’d better go out,’ said Brian, putting his clarinet carefully on to its stand, and replacing the cap.

Outside they found a small, bespectacled middle-aged man in a brown jacket and waistcoat cowering between a wall and a rhododendron, while Jenny’s husband, already enraged by the intransigence of the mower, loomed over him with a large wrench and demanded explanations.

‘Peter, darling, please, be careful with that thing,’ said Jenny. ‘You might do some damage, and then they’ll take you away in a Black Maria, and tomorrow you’ll miss Sunday lunch, and we’ll have to give your share to the dog.’

Peter lowered the spanner, and said, ‘All right, but who the hell are you, and what are you doing underneath my window? And don’t you know any better than to walk on other people’s flower beds? It compacts the soil. Don’t you know that?’

‘No. I’m not a gardener, I’m afraid. I really am most terribly sorry. It was the music.’

‘The music?’ repeated Jenny.

‘Yes, the music. I just love that kind of music. I love Devienne. It’s a bit light, I suppose, but I don’t mind. I’ve never heard it done like that before, on oboe and clarinet. I couldn’t resist listening. I really am so sorry … for the damage to the flower bed … and for intruding.’

‘You knew it was Devienne?’ said Brian, much impressed. ‘Are you a musician yourself?’

The little man nodded, and said, ‘Bassoon.’

‘Bassoon!’ exclaimed Jenny and Brian together, both struck by the same thought.

‘Prove it,’ said Peter, who was still enraged by his mower, and desired a little more confrontation and aggression.

‘Prove it? Why, do you have one?’

‘Tell us the K number of Mozart’s bassoon concerto in B-flat major,’ said Jenny, mischievously.

‘And the opus number of Weber’s bassoon concerto,’ added Brian.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ exclaimed Peter, ‘bloody musicians!’

‘It’s 191 and 75, respectively,’ said the man. ‘I’ve played both of them in my time.’

Jenny and Brian were astounded. ‘You’ve played them both? Entire concertos?’

‘I used to be a pro, but then I got married. You can’t support children and a wife, especially not my wife anyway, if you’re just a bassoonist. Now I play with whoever wants me. I keep my hand in. One of these days I’ll be back on the road, God willing. Well, wife willing.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Jenny.

‘Oh no,’ said Peter, waving his spanner, ‘I can just see what’s coming. God save us all.’ He strode away to renew battle with his mower. The children, who all this time had been standing dumbly by with their thumbs in their mouths, returned to their scrum on the lawn.

‘So what were you doing round here?’ asked Brian.

‘I’m a de Mandeville,’ said the man, as if that amounted to an explanation. ‘Or man-devil, as my wife likes to say.’

‘I don’t see …’ began Jenny.

‘I’m Piers de Mandeville. Piers is a family name. There’ve been lots of us. You’ve probably noticed the big tomb just outside the door of the church. It’s the one where they hide the key. That’s the Piers de Mandeville I’m descended from. We used to be the lords of the manor, you know, in that house where the musicologist lives. Unfortunately we went down in the world. It was the South Sea Bubble, apparently. The family lost a fortune.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Brian. ‘I don’t even know the names of my great-grandparents.’

‘I’m a genealogist. When I’m not a bassoonist, I spend my time finding the ancestors of Americans, mainly. It pays surprisingly well. They’re all convinced that they’re related to the royal family. Or Irish chieftains.’

‘It’s like people who believe in reincarnation,’ said Jenny. ‘They all think they were Cleopatra.’

‘Do they?’ said Brian. ‘They say I’ve got an ancestor who was hanged for being a highwayman.’

‘Well, anyway, I like to come here and see where Piers and Bessie are. It’s a sad story.’

‘Go on,’ said Jenny, ‘depress us. Do come in and have a cup of tea.’

Once in the drawing room de Mandeville continued. ‘Well, Bessie was from the poor side of the family, who lived in Chiddingfold. The Maunderfields. They were farmers. Apparently she and Piers fell in love, and they got married rather late in the day, after a lot of opposition from his family. Three months after they married, poor Bessie died. It says “dyed in childbed” on the tomb.’

‘Oh, I saw that,’ said Jenny. ‘It always makes me feel sad. And there are three little children in there by a second wife. They are all called John and they died one after the other in the space of three years. It’s awful.’