Ibbotson, Eva - Magic Flutes

‘Only it isn’t just literally a wild strawberry place,’ Tessa went on. ‘A smultronställe is any place that’s absolutely private and special and your own. A place where life is . . . an epiphany. Like that very quiet room in the Kunsthistorisches Museum where the Vermeers are. Or that marvellous bit where the flute plays that golden music at the beginning of L'Après-midi d’un faune.’

‘The nave of King’s College chapel at Evensong,’ said Guy.

‘The place in the Prater behind the hunting lodge where the first scillas come in spring.’

‘The garden act of Figaro.’

‘The Lippizzaners doing a capriole, in the winter, when there’s no one there.’

It was very quiet in the clearing, the murmuring of the stream the only sound.

‘You must bring your children here,’ said Tessa. ‘But never, never anyone you don’t love.’ Unaware of the implications of her words, she bent her head and touched one of the berries he still held cupped in his hand. ‘Eat!’ she admonished him.

But Guy, suddenly, was in another smultronställe. Martha Hodge’s small, dark kitchen in Newcastle – the smell of gingerbread in the oven, the kettle on the hob. A place where the obstinate, confused boy he had been had tasted his first wisdom and goodness and certainty.

‘Oh, God!’ thought Guy, overcome by longing for that uncomplicated world – and ate.

11

Guy spent the morning, on the fifth day of his house party, performing a task he had meant to attend to days earlier: writing to tell Martha Hodge about his engagement and his great happiness.

‘. . . The wedding,’ wrote Guy in his large, looped hand, ‘will be here at Pfaffenstein at the end of October. I know how you feel about “abroad”, Martha dear, and about travel. However, I wish to make it absolutely clear that there is no question whatsoever of my getting married without you. I shall send Morgan or David to bring you here, or I shall come myself if I can get that wretched business with the Treasury wound up by then – but come you must . . .’

Nerine, too, was attending to her correspondence. She had written exultantly to Mama, to Uncle Edgar, to her father’s cousin Clarence Dimcaster, and most importantly, to the aunt who was an Honourable, Aunt Dorothy. But she had not yet written to Lord Frith.

Nerine’s anguish after her walk in the forest had been misplaced. Both her yellow satin and the dress she meant to wear for the opera comfortably cleared the mosquito bite, and Guy’s lovely surprise was safe and sound. Now, lifting her head momentarily to observe that the bow on her polka-dotted muslin blouse was still uncrumpled, she pondered. She ought, of course, to tell Frith about her coming marriage. It was not as though she still had the slightest doubts about Guy. On the other hand, poor Frith, sitting alone in his northern fortress while his pipers marched round his solitary table, was a sad case. Frith really adored her. Perhaps it would be rather unkind to say anything until the knot was tied between her and Guy. Fate could be so unexpectedly cruel. If anything should happen to Guy, with his habit of flying about in dangerous aeroplanes or driving very fast in high-powered cars, well, she could still possibly make poor Frith the happiest of men. Yes, a friendly note simply saying that she was extending her visit to Austria would be best. There was never any point in inflicting unnecessary pain.

Meanwhile, behind the locked doors of the theatre, the dress rehearsal of The Magic Flute was going as Witzler intended: badly!

Herr Berger, the bass who sang Sarastro, missed his entrance; the stage lift stuck half-way, leaving the Queen of the Night with her head and shoulders sticking out of the trap-door. Pino stumbled over his footstool and began his duet with Pamina flat on his back. Klasky halted the ‘March of the Priests’ three times to hurl insults at his orchestra, and Raisa’s dachshund entered stage left and tried to lift his leg against a tree.

At five in the afternoon, Raisa said, ‘I go to Schalk,’ and flounced off, to be brought back by Jacob who said that when he had told her she had sung like a piglet with the croup, he merely meant that she had not given absolutely of her best. At six, a portly gentleman in the chorus fainted. At nine, the A.S.M. gave notice and the coloratura from Dresden was apprehended on her way across the drawbridge in an attempt to return to her native town. At ten, Frau Kievenholler’s cousin broke a harpsichord string and had hysterics . . .

At two in the morning Jacob brought down the curtain, informed them that they had one and all brought ruin and disgrace to the art of opera, and said he would dismiss any performer who appeared before six p.m. the following day.

‘Not too bad, eh?’ he said to Klasky, rubbing his hands, as they walked back across the Fountain Courtyard. And having left everyone nicely keyed up, the wily old fox put on his pyjamas, pillowed his bald perspiring head on the bosom of his Rhinemaiden, and fell asleep.

Though she had been to bed late, Tessa woke early on the day of the performance. Woke and stretched in the wooden bed in her room high in the West Tower, and walked over to the window to look at the much-loved view of shimmering water and soft blue hills which, in two days’ time, she would leave for ever.

‘Oh, let it work, tonight,’ she prayed. ‘Let it go as we hope!’

For Nerine, receiving her breakfast tray in the canopied four-poster, the day ahead was one of unremitting labour. Not only that, but her preparations would have to be made in secrecy. Now, sipping her coffee, she considered her strategy. A long rest, then a massage, followed by a face-pack and scented pads behind the elbows and knees. Her hair would have to remain in curlers until the last minute: ringlets à la Grecque demanded a very tight curl. Probably it would be best if she had a light supper sent up and just appeared to Guy in the lôge itself. Yes, that was the thing to do. She would part the curtains and just stand there. He would turn, unable to believe his eyes!

She put down her cup and reached for the mirror, ready to begin.

‘Oh, God, no !’ Her heart began to pound and droplets of perspiration broke out on her forehead. It couldn’t be – no, it couldn’t be! Not now, at the eleventh hour, a spot on her chin!

She leaned forward, peered, passed a hand over the glass – and fell back on the pillows, sighing with relief. It was just a speck of dust on the mirror – those dratted castle maids not dusting properly. What a fright she had had! But it would be all right now, it would be a triumph!

Thus Nerine prepared to recreate for this all-important night, with selfless dedication, her seventeen-year-old self.

By midday, the castle courtyard was a-bustle with carriages and cars as more visitors arrived from Vienna or Neustadt for the performance. Men staggered across the courtyard with tubs of oleanders to decorate the foyer, an awning was erected to the theatre door. Baskets of nectarines and peaches were carried up from the village to augment the cold collation and champagne set out for the party after the show. Bouquets were carried to the dressing-rooms . . .

At six-thirty there was a knock on Nerine’s door.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘I absolutely cannot be disturbed!’

But when Pooley returned, it was with a dark blue box and a note scrawled in Guy’s hand: ‘This is for tonight which is, after all, our anniversary. I shall be waiting impatiently. Guy.’

She opened it, and gasped. A diamond necklace – but a necklace out of a fairy tale, a dream! He had said her engagement ring was part of a parure . . .

Happiness overwhelmed her. That was the one thing which had worried her a little: that, dressed as she had been at seventeen, she would be a little too simple, too understated. Now the necklace would add the last, entrancing touch. Young, yes; girlish and unaffected, yes; but also cherished, valued, adored.