''Wandering Minstrel'
(A short story from the heart of Merrie England ) by Rob Hopcott
The job was too good to be true - and I was hooked! 'Become a wandering minstrel. Use your musical skills and bring live music
accompaniments to amateur musicians in their own homes. You must be willing to
travel and sometimes to work away from home'. Ruefully, I contemplated the last line. My wife certainly wouldn't miss me. The
last year had not been a easy one. We'd grown a long way apart over the years
as my hours at the Bank had become longer. Then, just before the anniversary of our 20th year together, the axe fell on
the International Department
and
I was just another down-sized statistic. A spare part living in a house I
couldn't afford with a stranger who couldn't work out where to put me. I looked at the lady behind the desk. Neat, tidy red jacket and skirt, dark
hair and about 30 years old with stitched on professional smile. She collected my application form, briefly scanned it and introduced
herself as Natalie. "So you're the flute", she said. "We've several already but your experience
with folk music is slightly different. It might be useful." "We've about 50 clients regularly using our service and several are
interested in music with a folk element." She focussed her blue eyes on me: "20 years in foreign exchange, Deputy Head of Department - not easy to find a
new career after that. You could feel bitter." I knew she was probing. She wanted to know if I was damaged goods. Was it so
obvious in my demeaner? The months of filling application forms, the
rejections, the loss
of 20 years savings and the loss of our home in the 90s recession. Bitter - yes - who wouldn't be? I still remembered the look on the face of
the political canvasser who visited our newly rented house. My wife had held me
back
and a life time of playing by the rules had prevented me from hitting him -
just! The canvasser had disappear down the pathway with forced cheeriness claiming
the other side would not have done any better. I had trembled for the rest of
the day. She gazed at me quizzically. She had deep blue eyes; intelligent, perceptive.
Dark hair framed a pert tulip shaped face. I took a deep, breath, forced myself to relax and chose honesty - well some. "Yes, I feel betrayed - but so do my friends who also played by the rules and
lost everything". "Trouble is we can't hit back and this makes it even worse. But the anger can
eat you up and the guilty ones still get to keep their knighthoods and
non-executive directorships." "So there's no point in being angry", I said grimly, " - we must soldier on." "You perhaps get solace from your music", she said, still looking very shrewdly
at me. "Play for me". "So now we come to the real interview", I thought. I opened my flute case and placed it on the table between us. Its three pieces
shone silver bright and welcoming against the rich red of the cushions. "I'll play you a well known folk tune. I've modified it into a mini
performance." Swiftly my fingers executed the triplets mounting rapidly up the scales. The
jig was a variation of Greensleeves but fast and furious. A tune that reached
far back into time past when Britain was a country of forests, of glades, of
dances in the sun, of cider and primroses on high hedge banks. From a trill that wavered between the positive major key and a haunting E
minor, I slowed the tempo and revealed the version of the tune that everyone
would recognise in gentle rising and falling cadences. The trees waved in the breeze, the sun shone through and the wind played with
the corn. My shimmering high 'C' note crashed in sliding arpeggios to its
denouement in the sombre minor key. Darkness had drawn into the glade but the
dance was just to begin. I accented rising quaver runs and returned to the
first refrain, a simple melody now, rustic, elementary, simple to play, light
dancing tones, smiles on couples faces, relaxed, carefree. The light after the
cathartic emotional darkness. The long final note faded away and I returned
back from my dream and looked up to see she had been with me all of the way. "You were wasted in foreign exchange", was all she said, "you'll be hearing
from us soon - one word of caution, our clients are interested in themselves.
It is our policy to be enigmatic about ourselves and our experiences. One day
you'll realise how important this is. Emily, my wife, was in the kitchen when I returned. She was wearing marigold
gloves and the local hospital's standard Nursing Auxiliary one piece blue dress
with small checks on it. I felt drained, in need of
reassurance. More like a small boy than a Romeo, I encircled my arms round her
moulding my front to her back as she stood at the sink. She spoke flatly into the dish water as she scrubbed. The tone of her
voice showed she hated her job and resented that she'd worked today and I
hadn't. "So they put you on their books - just like the others," she said. "And if they
want you they'll call - or not." You can't go on being a drop out you know," she shrilled. "Why don't you just
give in! Get a dish-washing job or stack shelves in the supermarket. Even a
little more money would make a difference." I gave up and we slept a long way apart again that night, our double bed mocked
our
togetherness, emphasised our separation - we tried not to touch. But, surprisingly, the agency did call and a week later I found myself
outside a very grand house in the middle of the countryside about a twenty mile
drive from my home. The ancient formality of this country mansion was reflected in the hall and
drawing room. Upright Grandfather Clock ticked loudly in the corner, the
polished wood of the stairs matched the oak panels by the coat stand. The
silent, deep pile carpet made a statement that underlined its quiet
opulence. Double doors opened to a lounge brightly lit by large French windows giving a
panoramic view of the garden right down to the river. Ducks bobbed in
the distance. Every piece of furniture looked antique. I entered the room cautiously. A grand piano was over by the window, its curves
waited like a coiled spring,
keys gleaming, polished wood in the sunshine. "My name is Margaret", the lady of the house explained, imperiously. "The
agency suggested you could teach me how to improvise". She looked me over. At the centre of her domain, she was in complete control
and intent on examining this new acquisition to the domestic portfolio ...
minutely. "I've lots of music", she said.
"But it's beginning to bore me and the agency said playing with someone else
would create 'a new dynamic'. She stressed the last words as if they were a secret code, the added value she
was
paying for. I dragged my mouth into the rictus of a smile and put my flute
together resolutely. So far so good - the next hurdle was to speak. My heart had been pounding and
my feeling of sickness growing since I noticed the photo in the hallway
dedicated to the'Rt Honourable Member'. I forced my mouth open and breathed deliberately, determined to get the words
out. The palms of my hands felt clammy. Images of unleashed forces venting
destruction on this tranquil lounge coarsed through my mind and threatened to
overwhealm me. But then they would win - again. Slowly, I forced the words out
and let them drift amongst the opulent furniture. "The agency was right," I said. "Great music can be created directly from a
score but the composer of the music is always there. The hand that presses your
keyboard is their
hand, the sharps and flats represent the emotions they are having, the
crescendos and the diminuendos represent his framing of the pieces musical
time. "Improvisation begins with such a tune, conceived and put into musical notation
by a composer but in folk music very often there are no phrase marks and the
notes are naked. Once a tune is learned, the paper is put away. It's then up to
you how fast or slow you play and the emphasis you give to certain musical
phrases. While you play, the emotions and colours in your mind will indicate
directions and slight changes. Soon you will develop your own version of the
tune. The little flourishes will be yours and the tune will become your way of
communicating your individuality and reality to those you play with. But gradually you will begin to see the pictures in others minds and your
interpretations will react and be changed by these. The shared experience you
can find could be described as you said as 'a new dynamic'. For my example I chose 'Gypsy Hornpipe - its simple runs would be easy to
learn. Sat at the piano, she picked out the tune on her keyboard with her right
hand. Tailored tweed skirt, blouse with sleeves slightly rolled up - business
like. I played it with her slowly at first, emphasising the jaunty rhythm and then
let her add some chord progressions with the left hand. "It seems strange not to have music to look", at she said. "As your fingers get used to the tune let your mind relax", I suggested. "It's a tune of the sea, of billowing sails, tall masts, straining ropes, tots
of rum and a touch of raucousness. As you play listen for the tap of the
sailors feet, the snarl of the captains mate the lash of the wind and the crack
of the rope." She paused momentarily, taken aback by my images but then continued placing a
little more emphasis on the dotted quavers. I joined in slowing the tempo down to a crawl. Slow through the first eight
bars and then increasing in speed in the second eight bars. Slow and faster,
slow and faster. Brutally I broke the rules of her classical keyboard training.
Then as the repetition of the tune became hypnotic, I speeded the tempo. Faster
and faster the tune whirled. Sea gulls swooped above, waves broke on the
distant shore, crotchets became embroidered with triplets, trills gave pause
after violent phrases before the tune burst forth anew. Then without warning I held the note and kept it going for all the breath in my
body, to indicate the beginning of something new. I gazed out and watched the
mounting cloud cumulus above the trees above the expanse of the iver. Fisherman's wives waited by the sea shore, their children at their sides. They
were watching for the tall ships, not sure whether to grieve, looking for an
intuition, a received message to tell all was well to confirm that the ships
absence from the horizon meant that the children would grow up without a
father. I broke into the haunting refrain of "Daphne" - sometimes called the
shepherdess. Margaret detected the change of key to G minor and changed the
underlying chord structure going with her left hands as I explored their
emotions on that far off sea shore. Then the ships appeared over the horizon. I leaned forward to indicate yet another change my eyes locked with hers and
quietly at first I reintroduced the Gypsy Hornpipe. Now Margaret had the idea.
She picked out the sad sounds of Daphne low down on the piano range. I replied
bright and from afar with the hornpipe. Faster the exchange became until the
two instruments joined together as the sailors did with their wives with a new
tune. Everyone knows Green Sleeves and Margaret was no exception. Mariners were home
ashore, the fires were brightly warming and lighting the fishermen's houses and
young maids were laughing in the dell as their beau's told of huge catches in
foreign parts. She closed the lid of her piano and leaning forward rested her head briefly on
the walnut lid but didn't speak. Her blouse was damp under her armpits, a jewel of perspiration sparkled on her
upper lip. She looked upwards and sideways at me. A strand of dark hair had
fallen across her brow, out of place and for a fleeting second an intense
hunger burned from her eyes. She stood up. Smoothed her skirt, produced a cheque book and looked enquiringly
at me. She gave no hint of any reaction when I mentioned my fee. My head was
still full of the music and the only number I could think of was very large and
based on nothing more scientific than the year when the photograph in the hall
had been taken. She wrote the cheque, thanked me and saw me out. I stood in the long curved drive feeling drained and despondent. I dragged my
eyes to the cheque in my hand. It was not for the amount I had stated. My chest
constricted and my pulse pounded. I looked at the numbers again and they seemed
to jumble up in front of me. Then, at last, they became clear. The amount on the cheque was indeed for my stated rate. What had confused me
was that more visits had been prepaid. The amount prepaid on the cheque would
cover weekly visits ... for at least a year. I turned, squared my shoulders and walked down the drive towards my battered
old car. I was going home ...
The End
Copyright Rob Hopcott, 2000
All rights reserved
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