Finding a tenor
The choir was quite desperate for men to join, so when her friend sauntered in with a fella on her arm, why did she feel so jealous?
Marjorie eased herself into the freezing choir stall. She gave silent thanks to Marks & Spencer for her lined woollen slacks and then to dear Celia, who encouraged Marjorie to forget that her mother had ever judged her as “too wide in the beam for trousers”. “You need to be comfy,” Celia had told her. “Your mother’s not around to see. Wear purple. Dye your hair a fun colour.” Marjorie had rolled her eyes – this was a step too far.
Anyway, where was Celia? She fixed her gaze expectantly on the doors at the end of the aisle, though why she bothered, she didn’t know. Her friend was always late and always forgot her pencil. (Lucky for Celia, Marjorie had a spare.) She was already looking forward to walking home together afterwards, Celia cosily linking arms – though Marjorie couldn’t help her own being stiff as a coat hanger.
Now she lived alone, there was only ever one night a week when her house saw a visitor. Before she set out for choir, she’d laid out their shortbread biscuits for later on her mother’s willowpattern plate and put a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge.
It’s the little things, she said to herself – the treats, the comforting regularity of their Thursdays – that gave her this feeling of satisfaction. She was almost disposed to look kindly on the retired bank clerk entering the stalls behind her, whose nasal trumpetings were more than a little off-putting.
Their choir was desperately short of men. The vicar had even led them in a prayer for more tenors. The man was as limp and unappealing as those white asparagus you get in a jar. No wonder half the choir had defected to the happy-clappy church at the other end of the high street.
When Celia eventually sashayed through the doors, Marjorie thought she detected a new swing of the hips, an extra bounce of her blonde curls. The next moment she understood why. Holding the door open for Celia was a dark-haired man, standing to attention in a pair of overly bright tennis shoes.
They headed up the aisle towards the choir stalls, talking animatedly. The man’s hand ushered Celia in a proprietorial way, hovering at the small of her back. Usually on entering, Celia would give Marjorie a cheery wave.
But this time she clearly had other things on her mind.
Marjorie’s smile was a little tight when Celia introduced her new friend.
“Marjorie, this is Radek. I couldn’t believe it when he told me he’d sung in a choir in Warsaw. A tenor, no less!”’
Marjorie took in the broad, almost bristly head, the thick neck encircled by a gold chain.
Radek smiled delightedly. “Ah, so this is the famous Marjorie. You know, I hear about you many, many things.”
Instead of feeling pleased, Marjorie was hurt. It was quite clear that these two had known each other for some time, so why hadn’t she – Marjorie – heard “many, many things” about Radek? This was most unlike Celia, who normally couldn’t keep anything to herself.
Ignoring Marjorie’s coolness, Radek grabbed one of her hands in his two meaty paws and shook it energetically. Her startled glance caught the black hairs on the back of his hand. The word “virile” came to mind, a thought which she banished hastily.
Celia sought to explain. “We met at the soup kitchen. Radek’s one of our helpers.”
The church’s soup kitchen was one of Marjorie’s sore spots. She’d only been once and had found herself stiffening with a mixture of pity and embarrassment each time she handed over a bowl. It hadn’t helped that
Celia was in her element, knowing everybody’s names and clearly loved by all.
By now the sopranos were craning round, twittering in excitement that a new man – a youngish one at that – had joined the choir.
Marjorie privately thought the sopranos irritating. They were forever chatting, rarely able to sight-read the music. They followed one another like bumbling sheep, constantly getting lost or heading each other over a cliff.
It was the strangest sensation, as if a frost in her soul was melting
Julia, their choir mistress, hushed the group. A retired piano teacher with a liking for shapeless cardigans, she had a new glint in her eye, as if she had just been offered a shiny new sports car to test drive.
During their warm-up exercises, the glint became positively triumphant. Their new tenor was a marvel. While Julia handed some sheet music to Radek, Celia leaned in to Marjorie, whispering, “Is it alright if we don’t go to yours tonight? Radek wants to go to the pub.”
An image of her empty kitchen, the untouched biscuits on the plate, came into Marjorie’s mind. Loneliness and disappointment settled heavily on her chest. Luckily, she was freed from having to reply by a flourishing chord from Julia on the piano.
She wondered if she’d be able to sing. Her throat had quite closed up.
When Radek began to sing, an odd thing happened. As the wondrous sound poured forth like molten honey, Marjorie felt her heart begin to warm and swell. It was the strangest sensation, almost as if a frost in her soul was melting. Her eyes spilled over with tears.
It was Radek who approached her afterwards, as Marjorie hid her face while tidying the music cupboard. “You cry. You miss someone. Very much. Yes?”
Marjorie turned to him, so surprised that she answered with a simple honesty. “Yes, my mother. It’s silly of me really. It’s been two years. But, you see… we shared a house… and…”
“You are lonely. Yes?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Cry. It’s a good thing. In Poland we cry. We love our mothers. It’s a good thing. Yes.” He laid a large hand on her shoulder. “Now we friends, yes? I take you to the pub. We talk mothers.”
“OK.” Marjorie gave a watery smile. “Thank you, yes. I think that would be nice.”