Mrs Nightingale's Song - opening

CHAPTER ONE

“You may disagree with young Damien’s interpretation of ‘Allegretto grazioso’” Mrs Nightingale admonished herself, “but you must admit that the music is exciting at this speed.”

She danced, rather breathlessly, in the back row of the chorus as the Finale to Act 2 of ‘The Mikado’ hurtled along. She sang and moved without thinking of what she was doing; the music and dance were part of her. Heavens, this was the seventh – or was it the eighth? – time she’d done the Mikado! She felt young and lively. The spotlights were bright – it had been such an improvement when they’d been able to refurbish them – and the dazzle hid the audience from the performers, but you could tell they were there. Not just from the applause; you could feel the people, sense their enthusiasm and enjoyment; you projected to them and took back their approval.

‘Allegro con brio’. The cello and double bass thumped out the first beat of every bar like a juke box. “Vulgar but effective” had been Mrs Elizabeth Nightingale’s assessment in the dress rehearsal. Now, though, she felt the exuberance like a fairground ride. “What a glorious voice Yvonne has,” she thought, as she had many times before, and experienced the pang of envy and loss that her own voice had faded, indeed, was almost gone.

All too soon the curtain came down. There was a frantic barging into position in the wings then orderly, even graceful curtain calls. The audience cheered, whistled and stamped its approval, for this was the last night, the adrenalin had flowed and the exhilaration had intoxicated everybody.

Slowly the tumult died, being gradually replaced by a chant of “Speech – speech – speech – speech”.

Smiling, the operatic society chairman stepped forward to centre stage in the spotlight from his place in the male chorus. The chanting turned to renewed applause and then faded as he raised his hands, palms out, for silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you; thank you.”

Smoothly, with the ease of one who has done it many times before, Frank Wright, the chairman, thanked all those who had contributed to the success of the show. The Stage Manager, with characteristic reluctance, had to be dragged struggling onto the stage to take a bow. The Musical Director, flushed with the exertion of whipping along his players, received his share of applause. Sundry costume makers and set designers, the repetiteur and the prompter received small gifts of appreciation. The next show, due in six months time in the summer, was advertised.

“And now it’s late. I should let you go home. But before we all depart to our beds I want to thank a remarkable lady for her efforts over many, many years. Liz Nightingale.

Liz joined us in 1963 – 1963, ladies and gentlemen.”

He quelled the applause with a gesture.

“For forty years she has supported this society tirelessly. She has been secretary, treasurer and chairman. During her stint as treasurer, we raised £50,000 in twelve months, which refurbished the stage and, especially, the lighting.”

This time he allowed the applause to build before cutting it off.

“She has sung in the chorus. She has sung principal roles - Mabel in ‘Pirates of Penzance’, Rose Maybud in ‘Ruddigore’, Aline in ’The Sorceror’ and, of course ‘Yum Yum’ in ‘The Mikado’. She has acted as repetiteur, stitched costumes and painted stage sets. She has even, in 1978, operated the lighting board when the ASM succumbed abruptly to virulent food poisoning.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you – Liz Nightingale!”

He flourished an arm in her direction.

“Step forward, Liz!”

The applause was tumultuous.

Elizabeth Nightingale stood still. Her feet wouldn’t move. Why was Frank embarrassing her with all this fuss? He knew she hated fuss. She was out of breath and her heart was pounding.

She was seventy five years old, although she didn’t look it. Slender rather than skinny, she still moved with grace albeit more slowly now than when she was younger. Nobody knew whether her curly hair was grey all over yet, for she had it dyed mid-brown, the hairdresser artfully leaving areas untinted for a natural middle-aged look. Her 5’7” had been tall once, but now, a little shorter with age, she felt dwarfed by some of the twenty-somethings.

Yvonne, Yum Yum, pushed clear of the other soloists, ran across the stage and seized Mrs Nightingale’s hand. “Come on, Liz,” she said. “There’s lots of your friends in the audience. They’ll be ever so disappointed if you don’t take your bow.” And only then, reluctantly, would she come forward.

“Elizabeth Nightingale, you’ve never yet let an audience down,” she told herself firmly, “and you’re not going to start now.”

Her legs were shaky. How she hoped that Frank wouldn’t ask her to say anything! She curtsied right and left, acknowledging the clapping. Everything seemed a little swimmy and out of focus. Then Frank was speaking again.

“It is our great loss that this stalwart is retiring from the Society. Tonight is her last performance on stage, and we shall all miss her. However, we hope that we shall see her many, many more times in the audience at future productions.” There was more applause.

“And now, to mark the occasion, we have a token of the great esteem and affection in which we hold her.” He reached behind, and was handed a large, rectangular parcel wrapped in shiny gold paper. He bowed low as he presented it. When the audience had quietened a little he said, as Mrs Nightingale had made no move to open the parcel, “We rather hoped you’d open it, Liz!

Elizabeth Nightingale jumped. Opening the package on stage had never occurred to her. Hastily she thumbed open the wrapping to reveal a large, red, leather-bound album. She looked appreciatively at the cover. Gold lettering on the red hide. What did it say? She was as blind as a bat without her spectacles. She squinted at it and read ‘Elizabeth Nightingale 1963 – 2003’. She looked up at Frank, wonderingly, and then slowly turned the cover page. Photographs. Black and white photographs. Why, that was the performance of ‘Pirates of Penzance’ in 1963, her first performance! And there she was in the front row of the chorus. Audience forgotten, she turned more pages. 1964, her first Mikado with the Society. 1965, ‘Patience’ and 1966 ‘Princess Ida’ and her first small solo part. She looked up at Frank. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

The audience cheered and stamped their feet. Mrs Nightingale looked up, and suddenly remembered where she was. She curtsied and smiled, and blew them a kiss, before scurrying back to her place in the chorus, clutching her treasure. She was panting and shivering.

The curtain came down and stayed down.

“Here, you’re cold, Liz. Let’s get something warm round you. Don’t want you taking a chill, do we?” Yvonne, buxom and a mere stripling at forty, was apt to mother everybody reflected Liz, but she received the cardigan gratefully and suffered herself to be led away to the Green Room. Yvonne sat her down in a corner by a table, and said, “Here, put your book on there, love, and have a little look through it while I get you a coffee.”

Mrs Nightingale ignored the suggestion and sat hugging the album. What a treasure trove of memories! She had a few photographs, of course, but some had been lost, and they were all in different boxes and drawers. Here she had a whole history of her time with the Operatic. She would look at it, relive it, over and over again. Someone must have spent ages putting it all together, collecting the photos; someone who knew her very well.

Frank.

Frank was retiring too. What had the Society given him? Nobody had made a speech for him. It wasn’t fair! She started to struggle to her feet, but found that she didn’t need to for Frank was there beside her.

“Here, I’ve brought you a coffee, Liz. Yvonne said you were looking a bit peaky.” His Mancunian vowels, that forty years in Haywards Heath had failed to eradicate, sounded warm and comfortable to Mrs Nightingale. She took the coffee thankfully and sipped, and then said “It’s not fair, Frank! Nobody made a speech for you, or gave you anything. And you’ve worked just as hard as me, harder probably.”

Frank smiled. “You’ve been very special to this Society, Liz. If you hadn’t raised all that money to refurbish the stage, the theatre would have closed and then where would we have been?

Anyway,” he added “I’ve a suspicion that I may be ‘surprised’ by a presentation at the party tonight. Speaking of which,” he rose from his chair, “I’d better go and make sure that the preparations are all running smoothly – no, don’t get up, Liz, just sit there and get your breath back. We can’t have you feeling poorly, tonight of all nights.”

Mrs Nightingale sank back in her chair. The coffee was helping. She felt less tottery and feeble, but still terribly tired. Now that she thought about it, the tiredness had been worsening day by day, but she’d been determined to enjoy her last show. And, of course, once on stage the music and the excitement took over. Her mouth twitched as she remembered how she had once lost a toenail in a performance of ‘Carmen’. She had felt the toe catch on something as she rushed across the stage with the rest of the chorus, and had ignored the sudden stab of pain, which hadn’t seemed too bad at the time. And then, when the scene was over and she was backstage, she had seen that almost the entire nail was gone and blood was running from the quick. How it had stung! That had been in Stockport which put it back – bless me – fifty years.

“How are you feeling now, Liz?” Yvonne flopped into the next seat.

“Much better, thank you. So silly.”

“Gosh, it was energetic tonight, wasn’t it? I’m absolutely pooped. Damien’s good, isn’t he? We’re lucky he’s prepared to come down from London. Didn’t you have something to do with finding him?”

Mrs Nightingale nodded. “His parents are friends of mine. I knew he was looking for freelance work, that’s all.” She thought of the time she’d first met Damien’s mum at a parents’ evening, when she‘d been his class teacher. She’d had to tactfully raise the matter of his disruptive behaviour. He hadn’t been a naughty boy, just one who was so full of energy and joie de vivre that he had to constantly be doing something active, that same energy sucking in the attention of his classmates and scattering their concentration.

She looked round at Yvonne. “He’s just the same as he was as a child. A loveable whirlwind.”

Yvonne laughed. “A loveable whirlwind! I must tell him that. No, it’s all right, Liz, I won’t really, not if you don’t want me to” – for Mrs Nightingale had looked appalled at the thought.

The room was gradually filling up as performers came in after removing their make-up and changing out of their costumes. There were outbursts of laughter.

Mrs Nightingale suddenly realized that she herself was still in costume and make-up. Tutting gently, she stood up. The shivering had stopped, and she was looking forward to the party. The tiredness was nothing that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

She was almost sprightly as she changed, humming the final chorus quietly to herself. She put on the new silk dress, peacock blue and shimmering, that she had bought for the occasion, and the new shoes, and looked complacently at herself in the mirror. Even in the unforgiving light of the dressing room she looked good. There were, of course, some creases and crows’ feet on her face; the skin was clearly not young; but she’d kept her figure. There was no sagging, no spare tyre. “You’ll do,” she commented, and went to join the party.

It was crowded. Mrs Nightingale clutched a glass of red wine and a plateful of nibbles. Yvonne, who was taking over from her as secretary, attached herself and talked non-stop about the Society’s business. Mrs Nightingale listened with half her attention, made the right noises, and hoped that her boredom wasn’t too obvious. She had never enjoyed being an officer of the Society – it was the music, and the stage, and the dressing up that she loved – but the administration had to be done if the show was to go on. She was glad to be leaving it behind.

Surreptitiously she scanned the room. One of the delights of a close-knit society like this was knowing what people were doing. Not that she ever gossiped; but she certainly speculated to herself as to peoples’ actions and motivations, and took pleasure in it. Now, over in the corner – young Malcolm with his hand on Jane’s shoulder, both of them married but not to each other. Mrs Nightingale doubted that they did anything more than flirt and maybe kiss, but there was an intensity about the boy that suggested danger. It looked as though Jane was teasing him. ‘Should I go over and interrupt?’ wondered Mrs Nightingale. No, there was no need. Frank had gone over and skillfully detached the lad, who reluctantly left the room. ‘Probably to pack away something heavy,’ thought Mrs Nightingale, ‘that would be Frank’s style.’