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“They need a kick up the arse in some shape or form,” she muttered, but then a knock on the door interrupted us. “Come in!”
I watched her switch back to performance mode as the door opened, although I didn’t hear what the interrupter said over the sudden thundering of my heartbeat in my ears.
I’d never seen her like this before. So… cowed, and faded. With an involuntarily gulp, I looked over at the calendar on the wall. Two and a half more weeks.
Would we even make it until then?
Chapter Forty-Five
Several hours later, the fete was in full swing. I stood next to the piano, organising my music and waiting for our singers to turn up. This gave me the opportunity to observe the scene.
I had seldom seen the playground so crowded. Turnout was excellent, largely down to the marketing that Petra had fretted so much about. At the far end of the playground, bric-a-brac stalls and a tombola flourished, while local crafters sold their creations and a coconut shy drew quite a crowd. Next to that, the ring-toss had been getting increasingly popular, and right at that moment a cheer went up. I could see why: someone had finally hit the jackpot, securing a bottle of expensive champagne.
Elsewhere in the playground, people mingled, chatting with friends and family. Children shrieked with joy all around, from the bouncy castle to the fish-and-chip van, high on candyfloss and ice cream. It was getting hotter by the hour, and thus every available patch of shade bar the stage was taken. The poor ladies working the cake- and drink-stalls under the gazebo could hardly move for people, and the tiny first-aid stall next to them was being visited by a steady trickle of people suffering from the heat.
Right in the middle of the throng was Petra. Staff lanyard round her neck, red 1950s-style dress flaring behind her every time she turned, face bright with adrenaline and make-up, she stood out to me like the queen bee in a hive. Difficult to spot at first, but then impossible to lose. For the next few minutes I followed her with my eyes as she shook hands, laughed and chatted, even high-fiving a handful of kids. Posh dress be damned, she crouched down to their level, absolutely enthralled by whatever she was told and responding to their enthusiasm in kind.
Our singers started turning up in their turquoise performance T-shirts, so I had to wrench my eyes from my wife. By five to two, they were all there, so I ushered them up onto the stage, organised them into three rows, and wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans.
“Ready, my lovelies?” Petra said, appearing from behind me and giving me a peck on the cheek.
“As ready as we’ll ever be,” I said over a chorus of assent from the group. Petra seated herself at the piano, and I fixed my gaze on them, drawing myself up to my full height and taking a deep breath. They all did the same, and the playground went quiet, as it always did.
Another deep breath and I raised my arms. The playground went even quieter. Then, after a couple of movements to settle into the tempo, I cued everyone in, with the first note that signalled the start of Adiemus.
The strong, punchy opening number brought the house down, as it always did. It was a choir staple, one that they always loved, and it reflected on their faces as they sang. The applause thundered behind me, and I gave the ladies a moment to take a breath and have a gulp of water while I shuffled my music and gave Petra the tiniest of winks.
The performance had started on a high, and this carried on the whole way through the set list. Something seemed to have clicked, because they were singing better than they had all term. Although people did begin to drift away once the initial dazzle had worn off, some stayed where they were, listening the whole way through to the end. At the end of our penultimate song – that Ave Maria we’d been so worried about – Petra left the piano and came to stand next to me, facing the audience, with a microphone in her hand.
“Thank you, everybody, for being here today,” she said into it, and the rumble of the crowd died down as they turned to listen to her. “Before we perform our final number, I would like to say a few words.”
Now she took a breath and a twinkle appeared in her eye.
“The eagle-eyed among you may notice that I am not Miss Victoria Berry, our headteacher.”
The crowd chuckled, and Petra gave a mock-disparaging half-shrug. “I know, I know. Nobody can stand in her shoes. I am, however, Mrs Petra Taylor, acting headteacher. Miss Berry unfortunately had a serious car accident in late April, and she and I would both like to thank our staff, parents and pupils alike for their support in this turbulent time. I would also like to thank the members of our lovely village choir, who you see behind me, for putting up with what have been some rather hectic rehearsal sessions. That is all set to change when Miss Berry returns, hopefully in September, to resume her role in running our wonderful school.”
A cheer from the crowd, and a not-unnoticeable sigh of relief from the choir behind us.
“That’s all I have to say. Thank you all once again for attending, for supporting this school and this village, and I hope you enjoy our Sea Shanty Medley with soloist Cassandra Mulligan, arranged by our conductor Jean Taylor!”
The crowd burst into applause, and she handed the microphone to Cass in preparation for her solo. I tried not to think about how it should have been Petra doing the solo as I observed her stepping away to the side and melting into the front row of the crowd surrounding us.
The fear of performing one of my own arrangements never left, especially with the drama and tension surrounding this one. Added to that its technical difficulty – by far one of the hardest songs we’d ever tackled – and its five-minute length… I had to force my arms not to shake as I raised them. But I swallowed down the nausea, gave the ladies my best old-Jean grin, and began to conduct.
Soon, the songs were flying by. Roll The Old Chariot Along, Leave Her Johnny, Rolling Down To Old Maui and others swept past as the choir got into it. Then, we reached the end of The Seaman’s Hymn, lulling the audience into a false sense of security as we diminuendo-ed into what they thought was ‘a sweet, lasting peace’ to complete the medley.
Then came my favourite part. Just as the audience began to clap, thinking the performance was over, I gave the nod and the whole choir began stamping its feet. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. The crowd began to clap in time as they twigged what was coming.
Then came Cass’s voice, stronger than ever.
“There once was a ship that put to sea,
And the name of that ship was the Billy O’ Tea,
The winds blew up, her bow dipped down,
Oh blow, my bully-boys, blow.”
