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.