The Tooth Tattoo Read online

  Part of Mel’s contract was giving solo classes for third-year BA music students and postgraduates. The standard was high, the teaching a joy. Little different in method, though, from the lessons he had given at Fingis Road. He had five talented violists not far short of professional standard. In addition, three mornings each week the quartet drove out to the Newton Park campus and attended the Michael Tippett Centre, the university’s pride and joy, one of the best locations in the country for ensemble playing. Rehearsals were private at this stage. Later they would allow some undergraduates in.

  The first of the “soirées” Doug had negotiated as part of the deal had been held in a beautifully panelled room at Dyrham House, high in the Cotswolds north of the city. In consideration for Mel the ensemble played the Beethoven Quartet in C sharp minor he’d learned for his audition and they delivered its subtle mood changes and breathtaking extravagance with finesse. The audience of thirty or so, including a number of final-year students, received it with shouts of appreciation out of keeping with the surroundings. They seemed to feel mere clapping was not enough.

  Everyone agreed that these musical evenings were a good thing. In later concerts, they moved on to Haydn and Mozart. Tickets were hugely in demand. Ivan was annoyed to hear that one had been sold on eBay for £250. ‘Doug is hopeless. He should have cut us in on the deal. I could have bought my own Strad with the money we’re losing over this.’

  ‘Misery-guts,’ Cat said. ‘This is the best time we’ve had since Harry left. Don’t knock it.’

  At the Michael Tippett Centre, Ivan and Cat gave regular master classes in front of audiences, an ordeal Mel was spared on the grounds that he was still bedding in (as Cat expressed it with a wink); and Anthony because of his poor communication skills (‘and he’s no fool,’ Cat said).

  Mrs. Carlyle came home just before nine and knocked on Mel’s door with an offer of tea and biscuits. ‘You can’t spend all evening on your own,’ she said. ‘Come and watch telly in the lounge with Tippi and me. You’ll have to excuse her bathrobe. That girl is always showering.’

  When Mel entered, Tippi was on the sofa with her legs curled under her. She didn’t look away from the TV screen.

  ‘I lost five pounds today,’ Mrs. Carlyle said to Mel.

  ‘Too bad. Where was that?’

  ‘Pounds in weight, silly. I’m not saying where from, but I hope you notice. How was your day?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Giving lessons as usual?’

  ‘Mainly.’

  ‘When’s the next concert with the others?’

  ‘The seventh of November.’

  ‘Do you think Tippi and I would enjoy it? We’re not highbrow, but we know a good tune when we hear one.’

  ‘Hard to say. Some people obviously enjoy it.’

  ‘Strauss waltzes?’

  ‘Actually, no.’

  ‘Shame. They really get me humming. I dare say you could wangle some tickets. How would you like to see Mel perform, Tippi?’

  Tippi may have thought of a rude answer. She didn’t give one.

  Mel filled the gap. ‘Quartet music asks a tad more of the audience than spotting a good tune. There’s usually a theme or message that the composer develops in subtle ways. You need to listen – rather than just hearing – and the rewards are there.’

  ‘Not so obvious as Strauss, then?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say so, but yes.’

  ‘I expect at a pinch you can play “The Blue Danube”.’

  ‘I can, and I have. I’ve been a jobbing musician for years, playing all sorts, fitting in where I can. And when I couldn’t get work, I did busking down the tube, “The Blue Danube” included.’

  ‘Outside the Pump Room is a good pitch.’

  ‘Thanks. I hope it won’t come to that.’

  ‘Or inside. There’s a trio playing while everyone scoffs their cream tea. If one of them gets ill, you could help out. Something on the side. We all enjoy something on the side.’ She glanced at Tippi, whose eyes didn’t move from the TV screen.

  Mel said, ‘I doubt if the university would approve.’

  ‘It’s not slumming, playing in the Pump Room. They have to be good because they get requests. I was told someone asked them to play the “1812 Overture” and they said they’d love to but unfortunately they didn’t have the cannon.’

  He grinned. ‘I like it.’

  ‘A cannon in the Pump Room – that’s a laugh. Have you ever played the “1812”, Mel?’

  ‘A few times, but not alone. You need an orchestra for that.’

  ‘And a big gun?’

  ‘Ideally, more than one, but it doesn’t often happen. There’s a story of the Liverpool Philharmonic playing with two cannon mounted at the back of the orchestra. When they fired the first blank the orchestra was deafened and one lady violist fled the stage. Everyone was coated in specks of cordite and the management had to pay the laundry bills.’

  ‘Glory be. What fun.’

  ‘Nothing so dramatic happens in our concerts.’

  ‘I expect you have a few laughs, even so.’

  ‘At rehearsal sometimes. Our cellist has a sense of humour. She’s fun to be with.’

  Mrs. Carlyle’s eyebrows pricked up. ‘She? Did you hear that, Tippi? You’d better listen up. There’s a lady in Mel’s quartet.’

  Tippi didn’t even blink.

  Her mother hadn’t finished. ‘Perhaps all three of the others are ladies. I hadn’t thought of that. Who’s a lucky boy, then?’ She put a hand to her mouth and shook with amusement.

  ‘Cat is the only woman,’ Mel said.

  ‘It’s the other way round, is it? She’s the lucky one, with three fellows to choose from. Cat, did you say? Cat with the cream, I should think.’

  ‘Nothing of that sort goes on. We’re professionals.’

  ‘Says you.’

  He knew she was making mischief, so he grinned, reached for a biscuit and said nothing.

  ‘More tea?’ Mrs. Carlyle said. ‘Your cup’s empty. Tippi can top you up.’

  For that remark, she got a glare from her daughter.

  ‘Thanks. I’ve had all I want,’ Mel said, and the words slipped out before he could stop them. ‘Busy day coming up. I must read through a score for our next rehearsal, a Mozart I haven’t played before.’

  ‘A score sounds like hard work to me,’ Mrs. Carlyle said. ‘You’ll be wanting the usual breakfast, then?’

  ‘Please.’ He got up and wished them a joint goodnight.

  ‘She’s in a world of her own,’ Mrs. Carlyle said. ‘I don’t know what she does by day to make her so unsociable of an evening. Sleep soundly, Mel. You look tired yourself.’

  Musically, he’d moved to a new level since coming to Bath. The musicianship of the others challenged and energised him. He was getting a crash course in the quartet repertoire – already preparing Brahms, Dvoràk, Schubert, Bartók. The learning process was exacting, but so filled with achievement that he didn’t begrudge a minute of all the time studying scores. Regularly he would feel he knew a piece and then discover in rehearsal how much more it contained.

  Intimate, intense and exhilarating, the fortnightly candle-lit concerts made demands on all the players, yet brought coherence to their programme of work. After the Beethoven at Dyrham Park it had come as some relief to Mel to learn some of the more romantic pieces in the repertoire or quartets with exciting cello parts like Haydn’s Opus 20, No. 6, where the viola was more in a supporting role. His musical education was on a sharply rising curve, but it was all immensely satisfying. These were some of the most rewarding evenings of his life.

  It was extraordinary how the other members of the quartet were transformed in the white heat of playing. Ivan – old sobersides – inhabited the soul of the composer and became spirited, playful, ecstatic even. Cat stopped being amusing and brought soulfulness from her cello capable of moving anyone to tears. The biggest change was in Anthony, who came alive in the rehearsal sessions,
argued with passion for his interpretation and was usually right. Any quartet is only as good as its members and the fusion of their playing. This one was reaching heights rarely scaled.

  They knew it of course.

  During a break from rehearsal one morning, Mel said to Ivan, ‘This is more dynamic than anything I’ve experienced musically before, the way we all contribute ideas.’

  ‘It’s how we’ve always worked.’

  ‘So creative.’

  ‘Nothing is static in ensemble work. We learn from each other constantly.’

  ‘I’m learning in spades.’

  ‘It isn’t one-way. We’re responding to you.’

  Mel blinked. ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t say things I don’t mean. So you feel you are benefiting from the experience?’

  ‘Enormously, even though I still hardly know you.’

  ‘Me personally?’

  ‘The group. Anthony puzzles me the most. A sort of Jekyll and Hyde.’ He stopped, embarrassed at what he’d said. ‘No, that’s out of order. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Bipolar?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to give it a label.’

  ‘Good – because we don’t think he’s bipolar. That’s about highs and lows, isn’t it? Manic-depressive stuff. He’s not particularly depressed.’

  ‘There’s a personality change when we start rehearsing.’

  ‘The music is paramount to Anthony. It dwarfs everything else. The rest of his life bores him. He can’t be bothered with it. Playing in the quartet is his only reality.’

  ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

  ‘There are times when we have to remind him over the most mundane things like getting his hair cut or renewing his passport. He needs someone in his life to chivvy him along. But he’s not capable of entering into a relationship, so I don’t think he’ll find anyone.’

  ‘Not capable? He must have emotional needs.’

  ‘Outside music?’ Ivan shook his head. ‘I’m not aware of any. The emotion is all channelled into his playing. If his body tells him he requires food, he’ll eat. He doesn’t read or go to the cinema. When he wants sex, he’ll pay for it. All those things are functional, unconnected with intellectual pleasure which comes to him only when he picks up his violin.’

  Having said he wasn’t giving a label to Anthony’s behaviour, Mel passed no comment. Privately he thought this sounded like some form of autism.

  ‘It must have been tough for him when Harry quit.’

  ‘Indescribably tough. We worried over him. He was close to suicide. Douglas got him some work with the Hallé which probably saved his life.’

  When the session resumed, Mel watched Anthony’s eyes light up. Disturbing, really, to see how addictive music can be. They played a few bars of Schubert’s Rosamunde and Anthony halted the playing himself. ‘It’s become sentimental,’ he said. ‘We’re losing the truth of the piece. Can we try this section again from the beginning?’

  ‘Not until we agree what is wrong,’ Ivan said.

  ‘The tempo. We’ve never played it this way. Like treacle running off a spoon.’

  ‘Must be my fault,’ Mel said. ‘I’m making the difference.’

  ‘I’m not blaming anyone,’ Anthony said. ‘We can rectify this. Didn’t you notice, Cat?’

  ‘Sweetie, I was miles away, trying to remember if I sent my dad a birthday card.’

  Anthony swung round to face her, all aggression. ‘How can you do that when we’re playing?’

  ‘All too easily. Haven’t you ever driven a car and thought, I’ve come this far and I can’t remember any of the traffic lights I passed and the turns I made and if I was watching my speed? One part of my brain is doing these things but I’m in another place. The worst is when it happens in a concert. I can see my bow moving and it isn’t my hand that’s guiding it, can’t be, but Jesus, it is. Shit a brick, I’m in Carnegie Hall, playing Beethoven. If it hasn’t happened to you, my chick, be grateful.’

  Mel knew exactly what she’d described. He’d experienced the same nightmare more than once, although not with this group.

  Anthony was lost for words.

  Ivan said, ‘Let’s reconsider. Anthony may have a point. If I take it with more energy, like so … ‘ He played the first bars again. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Still sexless,’ Anthony said.

  Cat’s mouth lifted at the edges, but she said nothing.

  ‘Show us, then,’ Ivan said, irritated.

  ‘Your part?’ Anthony tucked the violin under his chin and played, and he was right. The section needed a stronger pulse. ‘Shall we take it in segments?’

  Ivan scowled. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  They went from the start and the improvement was obvious. Nobody said, ‘I told you so.’ Rehearsals were like this, with music the only winner.

  After the session ended, Ivan said, ‘At some stage soon we must decide which piece to record.’

  ‘Who’s talking about recording?’ Cat said. ‘We’re still finding our way as a quartet.’

  ‘If you remember, it’s part of the deal. A recording for their funds. With downloads and sales of the disc it helps to pay for our residency,’ he said and added in a casual tone while fitting his violin into its case, ‘I’d like to offer the “Grosse Fuge”.’

  ‘That’s insane,’ Cat said. ‘We’ve only been together six weeks and he wants us to play the most difficult piece in the repertoire. Even with Harry on board, that was always a killer.’

  ‘We made a passable recording,’ Ivan said.

  ‘I’m up for it,’ Anthony said.

  ‘We all know about you. What about Mel?’ Cat said. ‘Are you familiar with it? All those fortissimos?’

  ‘I’ve heard it played and studied the score.’

  ‘With the best will in the world, sunshine, that isn’t the same as cutting a disc.’

  Ivan said, ‘I have confidence in Mel. If we start work immediately, we can be ready in a month or so.’

  Cat said, ‘We could make life a lot easier for ourselves with a more familiar piece like “Death and the Maiden”.’

  ‘We can record that as well,’ Ivan said. ‘We’ll need to offer something else.’ He finished fastening the case. ‘What’s your opinion, Mel?’

  Ivan’s unqualified support had been unexpected. Mel felt as if he ought to be worthy of it. ‘How soon do we have to commit?’

  ‘They want to know soon.’

  ‘They want to know?’ Cat said. ‘How about the players? You just said we must start immediately and for once I couldn’t agree more – but only if every one of us opts to go for it.’

  Anthony raised his hand.

  ‘He’s more than willing,’ Ivan said, ‘and the second violin part is unbelievably demanding on the fingers. You sound reluctant, Cat.’

  ‘For Mel’s sake. What Beethoven asks the violist to do isn’t shelling peas, you know. The lad’s risen admirably to the challenge, but he’s not a regular quartet player.’

  ‘Then we increase the rehearsal sessions.’

  ‘Slave-driver.’

  ‘I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought we’d fail.’

  ‘We’ve come a long way already.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘If Mel is willing, then so am I.’

  The three original members looked at Mel.

  ‘Let’s give it a go,’ he said, trying to sound cool.

  He shared a taxi with Cat and her cello. There wasn’t room for the others.

  ‘I hope you know what you let yourself in for, new boy.’

  ‘I have some idea. I must get a copy of the recording you three made with Harry.’

  ‘It’s not bad.’

  He tried obliquely to get more on Harry’s disappearance. ‘He must have been with you some years.’

  ‘Harry? From the beginning. We’re not careless. We don’t keep losing violists like beads off a string.’

  ‘Did he have family?’

  ‘None he ever menti
oned. It’s hard on partners, this wandering existence. Like the rest of us, he was self-reliant. Well, I’m saying that and it’s not entirely true. Anthony needs mothering, but he’s a special case. Sometimes I feel like smothering him. Harry was all man.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  She smiled. ‘He took his chances when they came.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Groupies. We’re not much different to pop groups when it comes to fans. In our peak years we had a huge following. Invitations of all sorts flooded in, from billionaires wanting us to play on their Strads to schoolgirls asking us to autograph their bras. Asking the guys, that is. Even they got bored with it after a time.’

  ‘And you think Harry took advantage?’

  ‘Of schoolgirls? No, he wasn’t that way inclined. What he got up to was grown-up stuff and he didn’t like me asking about it.’

  ‘Was he gay?’

  ‘Harry? No, don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen how pleased he was when women came onto him. The first commandment of quartet life is that you don’t pry into each other’s goings-on, but laws are meant to be broken and I’m curious by nature, and it sounds like you are, too.’

  ‘He interests me for obvious reasons,’ Mel said. ‘I’ve stepped into his shoes.’

  ‘All I can tell you is that he covered his tracks. When we needed to get hold of him at short notice – as you do at times because of a change in arrangements – it was the devil’s own job trying to reach him. He was never at his lodgings. But you couldn’t fault him for reliability. He turned up at the hall in good time for concerts and rehearsals. Looked a little jaded on occasions, but I guess we all do from time to time.’

  ‘So when he disappeared, it came as a shock?’