CHAPTER 9
When I approached the cake I heard music playing in such plangent tones that for an instant I was stopped in my tracks. Had some tragedy occurred, I wondered, of which I was yet to be informed? It was certainly a day for such thoughts. Dark clouds were blowing in from the east on a wild and bitter wind, while all the trees rustled with their dead leaves.
The playing stopped. I waited and listened and after a time it resumed again. Now I could hear the plaintive sound of a lone oboe. It reminded me of a despondent cry in some remote region far beyond my reach.
I was almost tempted to turn back and leave Greylag to continue his work uninterrupted; he was obviously making excellent progress with the overture. I decided, however, that as Principal Composer I should at least show my face occasionally. Therefore, I opened the postern door and went in.
The lone oboe had now been joined by several others, and gradually they built on the theme he had been developing. I arrived in the orchestra pit just as they embarked on a shrill rampage that took them into battle with the piccolos and flutes. Moments later the trumpets appeared as if to separate the squabbling woodwind. Then Greylag noticed me and brought them all to a halt.
‘Carry on, if you like, Greylag,’ I said. ‘It sounds marvellous.’
‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ he replied, ‘but could you possibly listen to a particular section we’ve been practising, to tell me if you think it worthy of inclusion?’
‘Of course, Greylag,’ I said. ‘I am always at your service.’
My ill-chosen words caused Greylag to redden slightly, but he quickly recovered and turned to the orchestra. As usual, the musicians had been sitting in silent rows awaiting their instructions. I noticed that they had handwritten scores on their music stands; and that these scores already ran to several dozen pages. On Greylag’s orders they started leafing through to a certain point. Then, at last, they were ready to begin playing.
The music this time was different again. I recognised the same melody from the original theme, but now the entire brass section was on the march. When all the lower strings abruptly entered the fray I knew Greylag was building up to something. Cleverly, though, he allowed the whole orchestra to fade suddenly into nothingness. I now expected some sort of crescendo, but instead there appeared a distant horn which played half a phrase from the first theme. The notes were slightly discordant and it seemed like a mistake; yet actually it was a carefully laid trap because then with a mighty crash came the crescendo!! The trap had been sprung!! I shuddered as my ninety-eight musicians drove onwards, soaring up to greater and greater heights, then plunging down to new depths.
I was willing to listen to more of this, but without warning the orchestra ceased playing.
Greylag turned and looked at me enquiringly.
‘Well, well, Greylag,’ I said. ‘That was quite outstanding.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘What was that trick you pulled with the horn?’
‘It’s known as a “mort”, sir,’ Greylag replied. ‘The call sounded by huntsmen to signify a kill.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see.’
‘May I take it that you approve then, sir?’
‘Yes, yes, without a doubt. You can do whatever you think is right. In fact, feel free to depart from the usual rules and conventions. Develop your themes in any direction you choose.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘By the way, when do you think you’ll be finished?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Greylag. ‘It seems to me that I’m only just beginning.’
‘But you’ll be ready in time for the twelve-day feast?’
‘I’ll do my best, sir. We’re working all hours as it is.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve observed the burning of the midnight lamp.’
I’d have liked to have been able to award Greylag and the orchestra a day off in recognition of their valiant efforts, but unfortunately this was beyond my gift. Furthermore, the constraints of time were pressing. The year was rolling steadily towards its close, and it was imperative that the overture was completed as soon as possible. With this in mind I decided to give Greylag as much praise and encouragement as I could, and then leave him to his own devices. For his part, he seemed so absorbed with his creation that the hours spent were not begrudged. As I left the cake he was already issuing new instructions to the musicians, who in their turn appeared similarly tireless.
I went outside and started walking across the park. As usual after hearing Greylag’s music I felt uplifted, as if the cares of the day had been erased. The dark clouds had passed overhead, the wind had eased and all felt peaceful.
However, this did not stop me from being surprised by the sight of a man standing beneath the branches of a tree. He stood perfectly still in a very unusual pose that reminded me of a statue. After half a minute he changed to another position, and thereafter remained motionless.
He was wearing a magnificent crimson coat, but as I drew near I realised that it was a very poor fit. It was plainly one size too small for him. When he saw me he relaxed his pose.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said.
This was a different ‘sir’ to those varieties spoken by Greylag or Hobby, being neither subservient nor falsely courteous. The delivery on this occasion was grand and self-possessed. Apparently I was being addressed as an equal, though the fellow was clearly some kind of vagabond.
I eyed him warily.
‘Apologies for our appearance,’ he said. ‘We were caught in a downpour a few nights ago and our cherished coat has shrunk.’
‘Why do you wear a coat like that anyway?’ I enquired.
‘You mean why do we dress in borrowed robes?’
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
‘Because of whom we are, sir.’
‘Well, who are you?’
‘Gallinule,’ he announced. ‘Actor par excellence.’
The penny dropped at last. The strolling players! So the rumour was true after all.
‘Gallinule?’ I said. ‘Are you famous then?’
‘We have a circle of admirers,’ he replied, ‘although we are better known by our professional name.’
‘Which is?’
‘We are the Player King, sir. We specialise in all the royal roles: good kings, bad kings, kings in exile, deposed kings, begetters of kings, murdered kings, warrior kings, pretenders, tyrants, despots and usurpers.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said. ‘I’m Principal Composer to the Imperial Court.’
‘We know exactly who you are, sir,’ replied Gallinule.
‘Ah.’
‘Our troupe consists of eight players,’ he added, ‘and we are lodging at the Maypole if you’d care to drop by one evening.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ I promised.
We said goodbye and he struck another pose which I took to be a sort of salute. He was still standing in the same position when I looked back a while later, but I soon forgot about him and made my way towards the great library. It was time for another of Smew’s talks. I had arranged to meet Whimbrel at the door, and I was pleased to see that he had kept the appointment. He’d even taken the trouble of bringing along his notepad. We went into the reading room and discovered that Garganey and Wryneck were also present; but there was no sign of Brambling, Dotterel or Sanderling.
‘Never mind,’ said Smew. ‘I’m grateful to those who are here.’
All the chairs were laid out in readiness for the talk and now it was simply a matter of deciding where to sit. I made sure Whimbrel was next to me so that he couldn’t misbehave. Wryneck joined us in the same row, while Garganey chose a seat slightly apart from the rest. Meanwhile, Smew took up position behind his lectern.
‘When,’ he began, ‘did marmalade change from orange to quince?’
It was an unusual question and I have to confess I did not know the answer. Fortunately, this was merely Smew’s way of introducing his talk. He went on to remind us of how the Empire of Greater Fallowfields had become a model of good governance; how we had established spheres of influence; and how the associated realms and dominions had striven to emulate our ways.
‘They quickly realised,’ said Smew, ‘that to be properly part of the empire they needed to become like us. This in turn required us to set an example, which we duly did by producing the Fallowfieldsman. He was the epitome of all we stood for. Wherever he travelled in the world, the Fallowfieldsman could always be told by his accent, his manners and his temperament. He frowned on uncouth practices but was never outspoken. When he went abroad he took with him the imperial flag, and this came to be widely recognised as a symbol of his natural authority over others; moreover, it was the only flag that could be flown upside down without anybody noticing. Such a remarkable fact was a source of great national pride, as was his steadfast determination never to learn a foreign language. This was considered quite unnecessary because any foreigner worth his salt would learn to speak like the Fallowfieldsman.’
The door opened and Gallinule came into the reading room. He glanced briefly at the little group assembled around Smew, nodded politely in our direction, then proceeded to wander along the rows of bookshelves examining odd titles here and there. He did all this in perfect silence before finally disappearing behind the furthest shelf. He failed to re-emerge.
Meanwhile, Smew continued his talk.
‘For many years we carried on in the same way,’ he said, ‘and the associated realms and dominions became more and more obsequious. Accordingly, we tended to regard them as mere vassal states. We sailed to the south, exchanged a few worthless trinkets, and returned home with all their oranges. We sailed to the north and helped ourselves to the best of their fish. In other words, we took full advantage of our sea-going skills. By this time we literally ruled the waves. We even claimed the prime meridian of longitude for ourselves, building an observatory especially to mark the spot, as Whimbrel here will no doubt verify.’
Smew paused and gave Whimbrel a quizzical look. This was met by an expression of utter bafflement from Whimbrel.
‘Well, Whimbrel?’ said Smew.
‘Oh, yes, yes, of course,’ Whimbrel eventually managed. ‘The prime meridian of longitude. Yes.’
Smew gave him a penetrating stare before resuming his talk once again.
‘It was at this stage,’ he said, ‘that some of our sailors began to venture due west, across the wider ocean. They said they were going to seek their fortunes, but they never came back. More sailors followed and they also failed to return. This was taken as evidence that there was nothing in the west except the prospect of shipwreck. Such a conclusion should have spelt an end to further exploits. It certainly reinforced our belief that we were at the centre of civilisation and that everywhere else verged on wilderness. At the same time, however, we knew we were the only people capable of sailing into the west. The implied challenge was unavoidable. Therefore, we continued sending out more and more of these so-called adventurers, even though they were never seen again. The consequences of such a policy were slow to reveal themselves, but gradually the empire became depleted both of ships and of the mariners to sail them. Which returns us to my original question: when did marmalade change from orange to quince?’
Smew ceased talking and surveyed his audience, as if waiting for an answer.
‘When there were no ships left at all?’ I offered.
‘Correct,’ said Smew, with a note of triumph, ‘when there were no ships left at all.’
He took a small bow and to my surprise a round of applause broke out behind me. Glancing around I discovered that sometime during the talk Gallinule had slipped into the back row of seats. I must have been so engrossed with Smew’s exposition that I failed to notice.
‘Very, very interesting,’ said Gallinule. ‘Thank you.’
He quickly went forward and introduced himself to Smew. The pair of them seemed to hit it off at once, and not long afterwards Gallinule was being invited to tea in the large bay window. The invitation also included Wryneck, but not Garganey, Whimbrel or me. We watched as Shrike was summoned and dispatched again with an order for lemon curd and toasted soldiers.
‘Damned rude,’ muttered Garganey, before heading swiftly towards the door.
Then Whimbrel turned to me and asked, ‘What did all that have to do with quince?’
I explained that there were no ships remaining to go and collect the oranges; and that instead we’d learned to make marmalade from quince, which was home-grown.
‘Ah,’ said Whimbrel, ‘I see.’
He was still holding his notepad in his hand, and when I looked at it I saw that he had written only one word: LONGITUDE?