"You've let me down again, John - what's the matter with you? You've got dozens of textbooks upstairs, yet you still aren't managing to pass those exams. In my day, I passed first time. Why can't you, eh?"
Fenton Bradfield's chilling eyes stared back as his son tried again to convince him he wasn't at all keen on becoming a Chartered Accountant.
"Never mind what you want, John, I'm concerned about your future. Our future! The day you qualify we'll both be in partnership. Fenton Bradfield and Son! Sounds good, eh? None of the others are in the running for that. I started that firm from nothing, John, before you were born, and now I've got over two hundred clients!"
It was same dreary speech every time. All John Bradfield wanted in life was to write music. He'd been saying so for years, but his father saw musicians only as beggars with caps at their feet, scraping violins on some draughty street corner.
"So from now on, John, I'm imposing strict control on your evenings. While you're under my roof, son, you'll live on my terms, okay? No television, no listening to records. You sit quietly and you study, is that clear? You'll thank me in the end. I presume you haven't got any secret girl-friends? No nonsense like that, eh?"
There was one particular girl whom John greatly admired, but he wasn't about to say so, especially as he didn't yet know her name. They'd met a month earlier when she called one morning at his office with a letter for the boss. She was tall, well-dressed, and moved with the grace of a swan. John had asked for her name, but she simply replied: "It's all in the envelope! Your father will understand!" And John knew better than to open mail addressed to his father.
Yes, this girl had so much poise and confidence she seemed almost regal, yet John found her in no way condescending. He'd seen her again a few days later in the music shop and she recognised him at once, her grey eyes sporting a smile that sent a surge of near panic fluttering through the lad's digestive system.
"Is that clear then, John?"
The hard voice brought him back to reality. He resented being made to feel like a wimp, defeated and humiliated, yet he couldn't afford to go and live on his own. Besides, despite his resentment, John knew the man was right!
So he resigned himself to studying discounted cash flow, mercantile law, executorship - lifeless concepts quite alien to his nature. His only relaxation came on Friday evenings when his parents went off to play bridge.
One Friday John was alone with his studies when the door bell rang. It was Arthur Simpson from the local youth orchestra. He asked with feigned interest how the exams were going and John outlined the situation.
Arthur seemed disappointed.
"I came with a great opportunity for you, John. Sir Norman Bennett's organising a music festival in October and he's on the lookout for new orchestral works by local composers. This really could have been your big break, John, the chance of a lifetime! And you're throwing it away just so you can earn more money in an office!"
Even in red tights and with a forked tail, this particular devil couldn't have made his intentions clearer. He must have known his gullible victim would hardly refuse. But how could so huge a task be concealed from eagle-eyed parents?
"If I do this," John pondered, "it'll have to be under a false name. No John Bradfield on any posters or programmes. Zero publicity, understood?"
"Okay," Arthur agreed with a sly grin of triumph, "though naturally I'll need to let Sir Norman know."
"No, Arthur! No way! Dammit, he's one of Dad's clients! Does he know you thought of asking me?"
"No," he replied. "No-one knows, except young Susie. Hey, get this - she's outside in my car right now, dressed in tennis gear!" Arthur voiced a basic animal grunt and his eyes bulged in anticipation. "Susie's at number one on my chart now, John, and I'm climbing pretty high on hers! Incidentally, she claims she knows you. Hands off though, okay? This one's mine."
"Sure. Just tell your precious Susie I said NO, will you? I hope you realise if I do this job, I'll have to write everything in my room after lights-out? Usual orchestration, I suppose?"
"You get a free hand, John. Just don't insist on eight harps! And go easy on the french horns too, they're hard to come by."
During those next hectic weeks, John worked from nine to five in the office, yawning like a hippo and jotting down themes when no-one was looking, and his evenings and weekends were spent studying accountancy. But from midnight onwards he was his own man, crouched beneath the eiderdown with a torch, scribbling out the first drafts of his music - and getting barely three hours sleep!
The composition began to take the form of an orchestral overture, a tapestry of rich extravagant harmonies which John longed to try out on the piano. Predictably though, his vigilant father had locked it. And despite all his efforts, John was beginning to feel deeply disappointed. His great masterpiece seemed to him banal and uninspired.
Another Friday evening came, and as usual John's father issued strict instructions. "I suggest you concentrate tonight on bankruptcy," he barked. "Oh, and a client may call while we're out. He's flying to New York in the morning and needs to take my audit report with him. I've left it on the hall table."
John was only half-interested. "Who's it for?"
"Bennett's Music College. And don't waste Sir Norman's time chatting about your musical aspirations, please - he's an extremely busy man."
After watching them disappear safely down the road, John hurried upstairs to work on his music. He was still far from satisfied, but under such severe limitations he felt it was as near ready as it would ever be, and time was running out. He would soon have to start preparing band-parts.
When the bell rang, John quickly stuffed everything under a pillow, arranged a suitable display of study papers downstairs in the lounge, then straightened his tie and went to answer the door.
There in the porch stood his dream girl, tall and swanlike, her lively grey eyes beaming vitality straight at him.
"I'm Susan Bennett," she said softly. "I believe you have some package ready for my father?"
With his heart pounding like a kettle-drum, John invited her in and encouraged her to take off her coat. Was this really Arthur's Susie?
"I really shouldn't stay," she said. "Dad and I are off to the States tomorrow."
John felt shattered and demoralised. "You're going too?"
Her eyes shone. "I'm going to study music in New York. Dad thinks it'll mean fewer distractions!"
"Distractions?" he echoed. "I can't imagine anywhere more distracting than New York! Inspirational, though! And I doubt if anything could distract me if I were allowed to study music."
"You're planning to become another accountant, I hear. Good luck with the exams, but I'm afraid all that stuff would bore me to tears. Anyway, we fly out from Heathrow at ten. It's all so exciting I doubt if I'll sleep a wink tonight."
"Is Arthur coming to see you off?" John asked innocently.
The girl looked puzzled. "Who? You mean Arthur Simpson? I sincerely hope not. Why should he?"
John felt rather stupid. "Sorry," he stammered, "I must have misunderstood. But when he called a few weeks ago, he implied you and he were sort of ... you know?"
"Ah," she smiled. "Yes, I thought your road looked familiar. So was it you he came to see, was it, about the piece for the concert?"
The grey eyes took on a wondrous glow of hope, as if searching for John's soul with renewed fascination. "You don't write music, do you? Is that why you were in the music shop the other day?"
If John hadn't been so tired, he would have taken more care not to open his big mouth to a client's daughter. He quickly made some facile comment to try and retract what he'd already said, and explained about his father's cast-iron plans for his career.
"I have the same problem," said Susan ruefully, "only with me it's music, which of course I love. But my father, being who his is, accepts nothing short of perfection."
John laughed. "You should hear mine droning on about his accountancy, how nothing matters except getting qualified. But I detest it - though I certainly shouldn't be telling you that!"
She gave a reassuring grin. "I don't see why not! Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. So, you had to tell Arthur Simpson you couldn't write a piece for us after all? I wonder who's doing it then."
John certainly didn't want to lie, not to this girl. In fact, he was longing to confide in her. She stood tall, her trusting face almost level with his. She looked intelligent too, and stunningly attractive. Anyway, he reflected, she'd soon be off to New York. Surely she posed no threat?
"Look," he whispered as if walls had ears. "Keep this yourself! It's vital no-one knows until after these blasted exams." John found himself laughing at his own folly. "I must be mad, saying this to the daughter of one of Dad's top clients!"
"John, trust me. Clients' daughters are a most discreet breed. Are you trying to say you did agree after all?"
"I promised Arthur I'd attempt the impossible in six weeks, provided no-one knew. Didn't he tell you? Somehow I imagined he would..."
Susan sighed. "I don't know what Arthur's been saying, John, but as far as I'm concerned he and I are simply members of the same orchestra, okay? He's been trying to act far too cosy with me lately, which Daddy doesn't find at all amusing. Hence the trip to America, right? Tell me about this new composition then. How's it progressing? May I see what you've written so far?"
John certainly hadn't expected so keen an interested.
"It's only scribble," he said. "But if you're interested..."
By all accounts she was, and so John led her upstairs to his room and showed her the progress he'd made.
"What I say is this," she murmured, thumbing through the manuscript, "adolescent children should never tell fathers more than is good for them. I hope you realise you'll need to transpose your clarinets?"
John explained it was only a rough draft. "Everything will be fine when I write the full band parts and full score. But it's too confusing at this stage when I have to hear everything in my head."
"What?" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with praise. "You've written all this without ever touching a piano?"
"It's the only way in our household, especially now that Dad's locked it. That shows you the kind of father he is. This was all composed by torchlight under the bed-clothes."
Susan gave a delightfully silvery laugh. "Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase sheet-music! Look, I won't breathe a word to Dad about this, I promise, but one day I would like him to meet you. Meanwhile," she yawned, glancing at her watch, "this girl's got some packing to do and I don't fancy explaining to your parents what an innocent client's daughter is doing in their son's bedroom!"
Blushing, John led her to the front door.
"Actually," she said as he helped her into her coat. "I envy you. After you've passed those exams you'll be earning ten times what I'm ever likely to get. Remember that, next time you get cheesed off with accountancy. But keep in touch, John. I'm very glad we met. May I write? I'll avoid saying anything controversial, I promise."
They exchanged addresses, said goodbye, and Susan was half way down the drive before John suddenly remembered she'd left something vital.
"Susan!" he yelled. "Miss Bennett, I mean. Hang on!"
He darted indoors and fetched the report for her father. After thanking him again, she paused for a moment before shaking her head sadly.
"Susan's fine. Tell me, aren't you curious to know what instrument I play?"
How embarrassing! Of course John wanted to know - why on earth hadn't he thought to ask?
"It's actually a wonderful instrument," she went on, "but so many composers ignore it. Just listen one day to a cor anglais, John. A transposing member of the oboe family! You'll fall in love with it, I guarantee!"
She lowered her slim frame gracefully into her car, gave a final friendly wave and drove off.
As John slowly closed the front door, he felt undeniably empty, yet at the same time elated, touched by the magic wand of inspiration!
Two weeks later the work was complete, a ten minute concerto for cor anglais and string orchestra. John sealed the bulky manuscript and band parts into a large envelope and asked Arthur Simpson to collect it the following Friday - the thirteenth.
Susan had already written two chatty letters before sending a surprisingly curt farewell note, proclaiming her father's disapproval over their correspondence - a bitter blow which was about to lead to disastrous consequences.
Fenton Bradfield's menacing eyebrows twitched.
"I know it happens to be Friday, John, but I've decided to let your mother go on her own tonight. This gives us the chance to chat about your progress in your various fields of study. But first you'd better know that I received a complaint today from one of my clients. Apparently you've been writing to his daughter behind my back!"
"Only a few times," John began.
Stern glares cut short his protest. "Don't play games with me, John. She has obligations, same as you, which brings me to another more serious matter. Are you giving these exams your undivided attention? I think not. I had lunch today with Susan's father. In our profession, John, we don't fool around with clients or their families, I trust that's clear? And now to cap it all, I find you've been squandering your precious evenings on a frivolity such as this!"
The big man reached down beside his chair and produced a large envelope.
"I found this damning evidence in your room, John. It's marked as being a concerto for Cor Anglais and String Orchestra, dedicated to Miss Susan Bennett? No doubt a recent work, since a month ago you'd never even met the girl. It's patently obvious you set out deliberately to deceive me, John, and I can think of only one way to teach you a lesson!"
With that he began tearing up the manuscript! John yelled at him to stop, explaining it took two months to write.
"Then it's two months frittered away! You fool, John, jeopardising your entire career over such nonsense!"
He stabbed at the fire with a poker. John knew his father was stubborn but he couldn't believe the man would deliberately destroy months of work. Too late he leapt towards the hearth, but the music was already being engulfed in flames, and he wasn't allowed anywhere near it. Fuming with anger John went storming up to his room to draft a scathing letter to Miss Bennett, just as Arthur Simpson arrived to collect the finished score.
"You're too late," he yelled from the top of the stairs. "My insane father just destroyed it. Ripped everything up and hurled it on the fire! Didn't I say he'd go crazy if he found out? All because your precious Susan couldn't keep her big mouth shut."
"But John," bleated Arthur, "tonight's entire rehearsal is for the new work! I even lined up a cor anglais specially for you."
His father intervened. "I'm very sorry, whoever you are, but you'll just have to play something else tonight. John's career is far more important to me than any amateur concert!"
Arthur starting telling him how Sir Norman Bennett would be furious.
"Preposterous! I had lunch with him only six hours ago and he said nothing about performing any music by my son."
"But no-one knows John's the composer," Arthur explained. "John insisted we keep it a secret."
"Yes," the boy yelled, "and now you can bloody well see why!"
Arthur suggested reconstructing the piece from rough workings, but John laughed bitterly. "You don't leave music of any kind lying around in a house full of vandals!"
"That'll do, John," his father bellowed before turning to Arthur and enquiring with icy calm: "Will Sir Norman be at tonight's rehearsal?"
"Sure, he's flown over specially to approve the new work. He'll have to be told who our mystery composer was, and why it can't be performed."
"Fine!" John yelled. "Tell him it's his damned daughter's fault, not mine! I told you how it'd be if anyone found out. How bloody right I was!"
After Christmas John's anger subsided a little, but not his resentment. Free from any distractions, John had devoted all his time to studying, and sat the exams in a mood of uncaring defiance. As Susan had said in one of her letters, at least if he passed he'd be assured a reliable income and still have plenty of free time to write music. John's view was less charitable. Another failure would provide a satisfying kick up the tail which he felt his father thoroughly deserved.
It was on a Saturday morning in January when John's mother came into his bedroom, trying once more to call an end to what she called their silly family feud.
"I did think we'd get back to normal," she said, "once you'd sat those exams. You two have hardly spoken a word to each other since that night - it was three months ago, John."
John retorted that it was only savages who burned things they didn't understand, but the good woman was determined to defend her husband.
"No, it's you who don't understand, John. There are certain facts you should know about your father, my lad, and if you won't listen to him, you'll damned well hear them from me. Have you never wondered where your musical talent came from? You certainly didn't inherit it from my side of the family!"
"Don't try to tell me HE'S musical!"
"Listen," she continued calmly. "Your grandfather had the same gift for music which you and your Dad both inherited. Yes, both! Grandpa Bradfield was a successful businessman until one day he dropped everything and devoted all his energies to playing the violin. His company soon folded and he went bankrupt. Your Dad went through a very tough time, John. That's why he's so determined to guide you into a safe profession. When you talk of becoming a composer, can you blame him for trying to dissuade you? He doesn't dislike music, John, he loves good music but he also knows it can make for a very insecure career. Your Dad's a stubborn old devil, God knows, but I love him dearly and it's breaking my heart that you two can't be friends."
"But why did he have to destroy my concerto?"
"Ask him, John, not me! You're his only son. Don't deny him the pleasure of having a son. He's not your enemy, he's your Dad. Go and talk to him while I make some coffee. He's expecting visitors any minute, so go on, John. Go and see what he's got to tell you."
Reluctantly John went to confront his adversary in the study.
"Ah, John! There's some post for you here, if you're interested. And no, it's not from New York, it's from the Institute of Chartered Accountants! Remember them?"
He handed John a white envelope. The boy stared at it, then looked up enquiringly. His father's face revealed neither anger nor disapproval, but a rare smile.
"To you, John, that news may be good or bad. It's not for me to say. But it came an hour ago and your curious old Dad couldn't bear the suspense!"
John opened the letter and read the first three words: "I have pleasure ..."
In a surprising show of affection, Dad embraced his son in a bearlike hug.
"Well done, lad! I'm very, very proud of you, do you know that? And it's high time we cleared up another matter which still rankles you, concerning the vandal who destroyed two month's work ..."
He broke off as the door bell rang.
"Ah," he said, "right on cue. Some friends of ours, John. But let's get one thing clear before we join them. No-one betrayed any secrets, so you behave yourself, eh? And you might care to smarten yourself up first!"
The visitors were ushered into the sitting room, and when John reappeared he was introduced to a tall, distinguished figure in a grey suit who came forward to shake his hand.
"We meet at last, John! I've heard plenty about you, from various sources. Oh, and congratulations, by the way."
John thanked him politely, though his eyes were drawn to the young lady who stood at her father's side.
"Hallo, John. I'm home for Christmas. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. Wow! What a surprise!"
Sir Norman laid a hand on John's shoulder. "This seems a fitting moment," he said, "to present you with a couple of gifts."
He produced a large envelope, and John unwrapped it to find himself staring at his own precious musical score, the one his father had supposedly destroyed.
"I understand that your father confiscated this, John, when you should have been working on other things."
At first John couldn't believe it. "But Dad, you burnt this, I saw you."
The old man grinned. "Now, John, what sort of monster do you think I am? What you saw me burn was a Photostat copy."
"But you stopped it being played at the concert."
"Ah, yes, for that I am guilty, in a way. But look at the results - you devoted your entire energy to your studies, and you passed!"
"Meanwhile," Sir Norman chipped in, "I was having similar problems trying to make a certain wayward girl concentrate on practising instead of enthusing about her latest boy-friend in England. But it certainly paid off. You should hear her some day."
Susan stepped forward and handed John an audio cassette. "Play this, John, and judge for yourself. It's a recording of me with the college orchestra in the Lincoln Center. It's only a rehearsal I'm afraid, but you'll hear me playing a long solo."
"I questioned the ethics," said Sir Norman, "of recording any work without its composer's consent, but I trust this can be granted retrospectively. If not, please forgive us."
"You mean, this is it?" gasped John. "My music?"
As he fought off welling emotions, Susan put her arm round him.
"Daddy wants to perform it in London around Easter. The amazing part is, John, I'd no idea what we were playing till he told me afterwards. I thought it was something of his."
"You mean, it's all right?" John managed to ask. "It sounds okay?"
"It does to me," Sir Norman affirmed. "No doubt you're longing to hear it."
Dad intervened. "If I know my son, Norman, I think he'd prefer to be alone when he hears that, especially for the first time. He's a sensitive lad and it might prove somewhat embarrassing for the rest of us. Let's adjourn to the dining room and have coffee. John can join us when he's ready."
Sir Norman nodded. "And John, I'd like a quiet chat later. I need an accountant at the college, someone newly qualified. It wouldn't amount to a full-time job, not yet, but with your many talents I'm sure we could keep you amused. Your father agrees the experience would be useful. But now, you sit and listen to your tape. It is good, John, in fact for a first effort it's damned good, or I wouldn't have wasted my orchestra's valuable time. Come, Susan."
But Susan had other plans. "Shan't be a minute," she replied. Those soft grey eyes which John often pictured in his dreams were filled with glowing admiration.
"John," she said as they stood alone, "there's something I'd like to tell in private. It's silly of me, I know, but when I discovered this was your music, I crept away to a quiet corner and I wept. I fell in love with this piece, John, long before I knew who'd written it. And then when I found out, well ... it really got to me. I just wanted you to know that, okay? Because if I were to stay and listen to it again with you right now, knowing that you're about to hear it properly for the first time, it's very likely I'll still dissolve into tears. It's so beautiful, especially the part you wrote for the soloist. For me."
John blinked hard and told Susan he'd prefer share such a moment with her than with anyone else in the whole wide world.
THE END
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