A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In Read online

  ‘Good!’ I called out encouragingly, although I doubted if they could hear me any longer. The music proceeded unabated, and was now terrifically loud. I strode quickly down the centre aisle, then passed amongst the musicians and mounted three steps on to the podium. I turned to face them just as the refrain came to a close and the main theme was due to start all over again. When this moment actually arrived I felt my hair stand on end. We were off once more at full tilt, but this time I was in command! I looked about me. To my left sat row upon row of violins, violas and oboes; in front of me were bassoons and yet more woodwind; and to my right were trombones, trumpets, horns and tubas, as well as all the lower strings. Beyond these were ranged kettledrums, snares, a bass drum, a great gong, some bells and many other kinds of percussion. There was also a harp.

  The orchestra played on. I soon discovered that all I had to do was wave my hands vaguely in time to the music, and they in turn would keep time with me. It all seemed very easy. After a while, however, I noticed that the musicians were not actually following my lead. Without exception their eyes were focused on a violinist who sat at the end of the front row immediately to my left. His chair was positioned slightly forward and turned at an angle to the others, and this allowed the entire orchestra to see him. Carefully, I observed his actions. I soon saw that he was hardly bothering to play his violin: instead, he concentrated all his efforts on keeping time with his right hand (in which he also held his bow). I continued watching in fascination as we charged again through the tireless anthem. At one point this violinist caught my gaze. I gave him a nod of acknowledgement and he returned the gesture deferentially. He appeared to have the orchestra under his total control.

  Nonetheless I was their supreme leader by appointment, so I went on ‘conducting’ in my own style for several more rounds of music. At the same time I took the opportunity to appraise my new charges, if only broadly. They were all dressed in the imperial livery: frock coats of black velvet with scarlet frogging, and black breeches. These outfits, I noted, were spotlessly clean but rather threadbare. Their boots were black with brass buckles. The violinist on my left was attired no differently from his colleagues. They were all playing without scores on their music stands, presumably because the anthem was quite familiar to each of them. A painstaking count told me that there were ninety-eight musicians altogether. Standing nearby, unused, was a piano.

  At last I decided it was time for a break. Only then did it occur to me that I had no idea how to stop them. I ceased waving my hands but nothing happened; likewise when I clapped them together. The orchestra just kept on going, such was their level of absorption. Fortunately, the ‘lead’ violinist seemed to understand my dilemma because suddenly, at a signal from him, the music came to an abrupt halt. Then, to my surprise, they all rose to their feet and bowed to me.

  An awkward silence followed as they stood holding their various instruments.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  There was no response.

  ‘You can sit down,’ I said. ‘Have a rest.’

  Quietly, they all sat down, but still the silence prevailed. Perhaps, I thought, they felt intimidated by my presence on the podium, towering above them as it were. For this reason I stepped down and strolled over to the violinist in the front row. Instantly, he stood up and bowed again.

  ‘Your name is?’ I asked.

  ‘Greylag, sir.’

  ‘And how long have you been with the orchestra?’

  My question, intended merely to establish a less formal tone, appeared instead to baffle Greylag completely. He was clearly lost for words. It then dawned on me that such an enquiry would be meaningless to him and his companions. The imperial orchestra of Fallowfields was comprised wholly of serfs, and hence they knew of no existence other than their service to the court. To ask Greylag how long he’d been with the orchestra was as futile as asking him about his expectations for the future. My mistake, of course, had been to forget the lowliness of his situation. True enough, serfdom was a rare circumstance nowadays in Greater Fallowfields, persisting mostly in the farthest-flung corners of the colonies. Here at the very heart of the empire, by contrast, the tradition remained fully intact. These particular serfs had the distinction of being the personal property of the emperor himself. My question, therefore, verged on foolishness.

  Even so, it was too late now. As Greylag stood mute before me I realised that there was still much for me to learn.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he murmured at length. ‘I don’t know the answer.’

  ‘That’s all right, Greylag,’ I said. ‘Maybe we should have some more music.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ I added, ‘is there anything else, apart from the imperial anthem?’

  ‘Well, we do have some variations on the theme, sir, if you’re interested.’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant exactly, but the suggestion sounded fairly reasonable so I gave my immediate consent. I was then treated to a performance of the same tune played in countless different ways. Again, I ‘conducted’ from the podium while Greylag took care of the actual details. I was now beginning to recognise the full potential of this arrangement. Indeed, my first day in charge of the orchestra had turned out to be most satisfactory.

  Eventually, when afternoon drifted into evening, I left them to their own devices and headed for the door. As I walked across the park I could still hear the music ringing in my ears, and I reflected on how extraordinary it was that a single theme could be subject to so many modifications and still be recognisable. At one point even the melody itself seemed to have been altered, yet the music retained the unmistakable stamp of the imperial anthem. I looked forward with eager anticipation to yet further variations. Moreover, it was plain that I had the finest orchestral resources at my disposal. All I had to do now was work out precisely what I was going to do with them.

  It was a chilly evening and the stars were out. I peered up and verified the positions of one or two constellations that I knew; then I strolled on towards the observatory which, I noticed, was in complete darkness. For a moment I assumed that Whimbrel had wandered off somewhere, but when I arrived at the door I found it was unlocked. I went inside and ascended the iron spiral, my boots clanging noisily on the stairway. Then I heard Whimbrel’s voice from above.

  ‘Come up!’ he called. ‘Sorry, it’s so gloomy!’

  I found him standing near a window, struggling to read one of his charts by starlight. He turned it this way and that, but appeared to be having no success.

  ‘This is impossible,’ he said. ‘To observe the stars properly it needs to be dark; but when it’s dark, of course, I can’t tell what it says on the chart.’

  ‘Why don’t you go up on the roof?’ I suggested.

  ‘I’ve tried that,’ replied Whimbrel. ‘It’s hardly any better up there.’

  ‘Well, I know a couple of constellations to start you off,’ I said. ‘How about if I point them out and then you can check them against the chart tomorrow in daylight?’

  Whimbrel agreed to my proposal and we went up the ladder to the roof. When we emerged through the tiny door we were confronted once again by the defunct telescope.

  ‘Incidentally,’ said Whimbrel, ‘I had a word with Dotterel this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘He said he couldn’t help.’

  ‘Why not?’ I demanded. ‘He’s supposed to be in charge of all the artisans: he told me that himself.’

  ‘Yes, he told me that as well,’ said Whimbrel. ‘Nevertheless, he said he had nobody on his books who knew about telescopes.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘There’s more,’ confided Whimbrel, speaking more quietly now. ‘According to Dotterel, all offices of state are separate bodies and should have no involvement with one another.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He was quite insistent on the matter. As far as Dotterel is concerned his only obligation is
to the emperor himself.’

  ‘Well, that’s fair enough,’ I said. ‘Clearly, his loyalties lie in the right direction.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Whimbrel. ‘Service to the empire is paramount. Even so, it seems a great shame that he’s apparently ruled out any form of co-operation between departments.’

  Privately, I concurred with Whimbrel. I could see little to be gained, however, from openly taking sides against Dotterel. Admittedly, I had found his boasts about being in charge of all the artisans irritating to say the least. It struck me that such claims required further testing; hence, for the time being I would continue to give Dotterel the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully, Whimbrel could be persuaded to forget the entire episode.

  ‘Right then,’ I said, glancing up at the sky. ‘I think it’s probably best to begin with the Plough.’

  The seven stars in question were easily recognisable. They appeared to have been placed there for the very purpose of tutoring Whimbrel in the basics of astronomy. Dutifully he wrote the word ‘plough’ on his notepad; then he stood gazing at the formation as if trying to fix it in his memory. Whimbrel’s disclosure that he knew little about his subject was obviously an understatement. Idly, I pondered what might happen if I told him that the sky was an immense heavenly vault which lay resting on the earth’s rim? He’d most likely believe me and copy my description on to his notepad. The outcome of such a jape, I quickly realised, could be disastrous, especially if the assertion went on to win imperial approval. After all, Whimbrel was the Astronomer Royal. It was not a role to be toyed with, and consequently I decided only to relate a few, indisputable facts. The rest he would have to learn on his own.

  Once he’d mastered the Plough I was able to show him how to identify the Pole Star.

  ‘Then you’ll know where north is,’ I explained.

  ‘Why do I need to know that?’ Whimbrel enquired.

  ‘Believe me, it’s important,’ I said. ‘Besides, someone might ask you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone who wants to go there.’

  ‘You mean by ship?’

  ‘Yes, possibly, or even overland.’

  ‘Who, though?’

  Whimbrel was evidently unimpressed by the whole notion of ‘the north’.

  ‘All right,’ I said, changing tack. ‘What if the emperor asks you where north is? What will you do then?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Whimbrel, ‘I never thought of that.’

  ‘He could ask you anything. It’s quite possible he might turn up here at the observatory and demand a guided tour. Just because he’s missed a few cabinet meetings doesn’t necessarily mean he’s entirely indisposed.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ conceded Whimbrel. ‘All the same, it’s a little odd that nobody’s seen him lately.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed, ‘very odd.’

  ‘So you think he’s gone off travelling in the north, do you?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘That was a hypothetical example. For all we know he could still be here at court.’

  ‘All they’re saying is he’s “temporarily absent”.’

  ‘Who are “they”?’ I asked.

  ‘You know,’ said Whimbrel. ‘Officialdom.’

  ‘But we’re officialdom,’ I said. ‘Me, you and the other six officers-of-state. There’s no one else.’

  Whimbrel made no further comment, and instead stood in silence as if contemplating for the very first time the full weight of his responsibilities. The evening had passed quickly, and as we watched we began to witness the lamps being turned down in the royal quarter. From here on the observatory roof we could see across the park to the great library, the general post office, the admiralty building, the counting house and the ministry of works. They were mostly in darkness now, with only the occasional glimmer of light remaining here and there. I noticed that the cake, too, was unlit. Presumably, this meant the music had stopped at last.

  ‘I think that’s enough for one day,’ I said, so we made our way back down the iron ladder.

  ‘Have you heard about these talks that Smew gives once a fortnight?’ said Whimbrel.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘What are they about?’

  ‘The history of the empire, apparently. We’re supposed to go to the reading room of the great library if we’re interested: every other Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock.’

  ‘Oh, well, I might have a look in,’ I said. ‘They could be quite informative.’

  ‘I don’t like history,’ said Whimbrel. ‘It’s boring.’

  ‘It depends how it’s presented,’ I countered. ‘Why don’t you come along and give it a try?’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘If you’re going, I’ll go.’

  Before leaving I happened to glance out of the window one last time.

  ‘Now there’s a sight to behold,’ I said. ‘Look at Jupiter.’

  Whimbrel joined me at the window and together we admired Jupiter’s bright presence high in the southern sky.

  ‘Marvellous,’ he said. ‘Now I must write that down straight away. Where’s my notepad?’

  Whimbrel had mislaid it somewhere. He was still conducting a search when I said goodnight and departed. I was coming through the door at the bottom of the stairway when I heard him call down from above.

  ‘Did you say Neptune?’

  ‘No,’ I called back. ‘Jupiter.’

  ‘Ah yes, Jupiter. Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  It occurred to me that this wasn’t actually ‘goodnight’ for Whimbrel: rather, it was only the beginning of his working day. A long and lonely vigil lay ahead.

  For my part, I intended to take advantage of the lateness of the hour and catch up on some much-needed piano practice. This was necessary, I’d concluded, if I was to fulfil my duties correctly. After all, who’d ever heard of a composer who couldn’t play anything?

  The cake reared out of the gloom. I entered via the main door and wandered down into the orchestra pit, where I was pleased to see a light glowing dimly over the piano. All the other instruments, I noticed, had been tidied away in their cases. I turned the light up slightly, then sat down and played the chord of G major a few times, just to get started. Next I went through a series of major and minor scales, arpeggios and broken chords. These all went fine until I attempted to play some major scales in contrary motion. As usual I got stuck halfway and had to begin again. When I got stuck for a third time I gave up and sat there striking random notes. This reminded me that I ought to find some proper pieces of music to try. Maybe I should consult with Greylag on the matter the next day. I was about to resume the minor scales when I heard a quiet murmur coming from somewhere behind me. I looked around and saw nothing, but when I turned the light up further I realised there were figures lurking at the back of the auditorium.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I demanded.

  ‘Pardon us, sir,’ came the reply. ‘We didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  The voice belonged to Greylag. I walked up and found a large proportion of the orchestra sitting in three rows of hard seats.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘Waiting to go to sleep, sir,’ said Greylag.

  ‘What do you mean “waiting”?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘we’ve only got one bed between us, so we all have to take our turns.’

  ‘Show me,’ I ordered.

  Greylag led me beyond the orchestra pit to an antechamber. Inside was a broad wooden cot in which a dozen cellos lay side by side, all fast asleep.

  ‘The bassoons have their turn next, sir,’ explained Greylag, ‘followed by the trumpets and trombones.’

  ‘And meanwhile you all sit waiting in the hard seats?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then why don’t you use the soft seats at the front?’ I enquired. ‘Surely, they’d be much more comfortable.’

  ‘It’s not allowed,’ said Greylag.

  ‘Whyever not?’

  ‘
I’m not sure, sir.’

  ‘Right!’ I snapped. ‘Not allowed, eh? Well, we’ll soon see about that!’

  I marched hurriedly to the main door where a noticeboard in an alcove displayed various rules and regulations pertaining to the cake. I read through them and then walked back.

  ‘You’re quite correct, Greylag,’ I said. ‘You’re not allowed in the soft seats.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Unfortunately, you’re not allowed in the hard ones either,’ I continued. ‘They’re all reserved for commoners.’

  A doleful look crossed Greylag’s face, but he said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Greylag,’ I said. ‘Rules are rules.’

  In the subdued hush that followed I went over to the piano. I sat down and began working my way through the minor scales again, one by one, until, predictably, I got stuck.

  ‘May I, sir?’

  I glanced to my left and saw Greylag standing nearby. Something in his manner suggested he wanted to help me, so I inclined my head a little and waited.

  ‘If the thumb is allowed to pass underneath the forefinger,’ he said, ‘then the hand is able to flow more freely along the keyboard.’

  He demonstrated by playing a brief chromatic scale; then I tried the same technique. Sure enough, this made it all seem much easier.

  ‘Thank you, Greylag,’ I said. ‘So you play violin and piano, do you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.

  ‘Come on then,’ I said, rising from the piano stool. ‘Let’s hear a tune.’

  Greylag took my place obediently. For a moment he sat with his hands poised over the keys; then he began to play a gentle, lilting piece of a kind I had never heard before. After a few bars he stopped.

  ‘What sort of music was that?’ I asked.

  ‘It was a cradle song, sir,’ said Greylag.

  ‘You mean a lullaby?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I see.’

  Somewhere in the distance a clock struck midnight. I’d forgotten how late it was. I looked towards the antechamber where the cellos lay sleeping. The other musicians remained huddled at the back of the hall.

  ‘All right, Greylag,’ I said, ‘I’ll come back in the morning.’