THE SOLOIST
The telephonean old-fashioned relic with a cord curled up like a spring and a handset polished smooth by the hands of three generations of the Harrison familystood on the side table in the hallway. It still had a rotary dial with numbers so worn they had to be redrawn at one point, and its irritating high-pitched ring echoed all through the house.
Edith Margaret didnt care that the world had moved to mobile phones and satellites. She refused to use themthey cause cancer, shed sayand she didnt like cordless phones either, though her son, David, had bought her a pair of those just last year.
Mum! But theyre so handy! You can walk about the whole house, carry the phone with you, no wires. And look how pretty! Silver. I picked them out special! David had opened the box, rustling the packaging, pulling out a sleek device. And what if Gloria Shipley rings? You can sit down proper for a chat, as long as you like. Its really convenient.
Edith wrinkled her nose, inspecting the handset David had set out on the table, lips pursed.
The numbers are too small. Not for me, dear. Take it home, your Charlotte loves ringing her friends, she could use it much more. Shed made up her mind. Besides, Gloria Shipley doesnt call me anymore. She just doesnt!
David sighed. Honestly, Mumthings could be so much easier. And its not fair what you say about Charlotte. Shes a good girl. Well be married soonwont you welcome her? And honestly, these numbers light up, look! Let me show
David was on his feet, eager to plug everything in and call his mother to show her how easy it was, but Edith caught his hand gently and said,
David! Sit down, love, your lunch is going cold! she insisted, whipping out a tin from the oven. Oh, if you could only seenestled inside, with a golden crust just beginning to crack from the heat, was a meat, onion, and egg pie, Davids favourite. Rich pastry, peppery aromatic filling, sending up clouds of transparent steambreathing, as Edith liked to say. The crust would rise, then fall, then finally just settle itself. And soon the mistress of the home was transferring her pie onto a fine porcelain stand.
She had her ways about presentation. Everything must be just-so, served with porcelain and a dainty pie server, matching plates for guests.
Dont make such a fuss, Edith, for goodness sake! her husband, Alfred, would exclaim, mouth watering. Just put it down, lets eat! Ill cut it, come on
Hed reach for it with his stubby old knife, wholly unsuited to such a masterpiece.
Hands off! shed leap to the rescue. The crust was plaited like a rope along the edge, brushed with egg, and right in the centre a small hole with a pool of savoury juice. That meant the butcher hadnt cheated herthe meat was top grade.
Edith was convinced pies like hers were served only at the Savoy, or maybe in that swanky food hall in Fortnums, though even there the filling was always much too salty for her taste. Shed tried them twice, bought by the slice, but never again.
Edith Harrison had spent her whole working life not just anywhere, but at the Royal Opera House in London. Not performing, oh nonot dancing, nor singing. She was on the admin side, ran the box office, handled the occasional complaint. Now that was all behind her, but mention of Davids phone or Gloria Shipley still pulled her back to that time
It was in the lobby at Covent Garden she first met Henry Royston, the star soloista most charming and considerate man, and an undeniable talent. Edith suspected it was from him shed inherited her love for a proper spread.
Shed always seen Royston from afar, or in those big framed photos in the corridorshis car always parked out front, his dressing room filled with the scent of Seville oranges, his beloved little dachshund, Espie, waiting faithfully for him at home. He had a housekeeper for the chores, as famous men do, and would practice yoga on a mat in the sitting room. Espie would watch him, head cocked. She understood her masters mood, greeted him with tail wags and a toothy dog smile every evening.
Best not to disturb Mr Royston when he got in. He danced himself to exhaustion, gave it everything, and came home utterly spent. His evenings were a strict ritual: a shower, herbal tea, yogaEspie would give the mat a go sometimes, much to her regret. The yoga came with drawn out chants, which Espie tried to sing along to, filling the house with a sorrowful sound.
Then, supper. Sometimes he had gueststhe ladies, Espie called them in her doggy mind. Theyd giggle, and keep her out of the bedroom. Shed grumble round the door for a while, then curl up in her basket and sleep. And still the laughter tumbled down the hallway
Everything changed for Royston, Espie, and Edith one foggy October day, the sort where youd rather not get out of bed at allwhen mist from the woods poured through the cracks and settled over the carpets and even tickled the feet poking out from under the duvet. Royston would scrunch up, then, and, eventually, rise, as the alarm blared.
That day, Royston was late to rehearsal. But he, wellhe could get away with it. He was the lead, after all! The show would literally collapse without him. Dancers held their breath when he arrived, his partners swooned at the touch of the man himself…
But the one person who cared little for all that was the ballet master, Mr. Lamb.
He caught a rumpled, harried Royston right in the foyer and scolded him in front of everyone, threatening to replace him without a second thought.
Henry, lets be clearno one is irreplaceable. Every leading mans got legs and arms, every other second ones got a head on his shoulders, and a fair few have musicality and talent. Ill find someone else if need be. Mr. Lamb said it quietly, but Edith, off to the side with her cardigan in hand, noticed his hands trembling. He crumpled his newspaper, muttered, and hurried off through the big oak doors, as if shocked by his own boldness against The Royston.
As Mr. Lambs door shut, Royston half-laughed, half-sighed, and then Edith dropped her handbag. Completely flustered, out tumbled a lipstick, two pensred and blueher perfume bottle, her battered notebook, two mint sweets, and all sorts of bits and bobsshopping lists, receipts, pins, a comb, and so on.
Im so sorry, Edith squeaked, sounding as if shed been the one giving Royston a lecture and not the other way round. II
She meant to say she hadnt heard a thing, shed forget all about it, tell no one
But Royston, after a moment, just shrugged, squatted by her side, and helped her gather up her scattered belongings. She was nobody special, an office mouse, but suddenly there she was, drawing him into silly laughter as they scooped up her odds and ends. He smelled of cologne mixed with a whiff of tobacco; he had long, thin fingers and a sharp, clever face, dominated by a nose worthy of a hawk. His thick eyebrows curled at the ends, making his deep brown-green eyes even more striking.
Mesmerising, Edith caught herself thinking. And then came the complimentsby the dozenand St. Henry Royston himself asked for her number. Edith blushed, but scribbled it out for him, forgetting entirely that she was married, had a son…
Henry promised to ring. Sometime. One evening. He smiled so warmly, trustingly, almost tenderlyno one had ever smiled at her quite like that. Her Alfred was a solid, schooling and work manten GCSEs, a lifetime of shifts and pay packets. His gait was heavy, his hands rough, and if ever he paid her a compliment it was a mutter in the dark before he fell asleep snoring. Just another ordinary, unremarkable Englishman. And Edith always considered herself ordinary too but here was someone saying otherwise. Her eyes were striking, her figure elegantly proportioned, her cheeks apple-bright
And all this, in the Covent Garden lobby! It was almost too much for her to believe. He pressed her bag back into her hands, took the paper slip with her number, and was gone.
Edith only realised what shed done later, chiding herself, then worrying hed phone, and what if Alfred picked up? Hed blurt something you could never trust actors not to! Who knew what would happen then?
Alfred wasnt exactly the jealous type, but still He valued Edith deeply. Made over their flat himself for her, worked double shifts, saved up for a ring, and finally proposed.
And now what if this Royston called? Would Alfred and Henry exchange words? Dreadful to even think of it!
Not that Edith meant to be unfaithful. She had her family, her son but in every womans mind, a but can brew. Could life have been finer, grander, more romantic? Did she marry Alfred too quick, just because no one else had asked? Perhaps she should have waited, maybe for a Henry Royston
But truly, what was the harm in a simple chat? She wasnt a nun, not shut away! Maybe Royston would ring for workthough what would he possibly want from her? Some tips on the box office? Checking which seats were free? Nothose were weak excusesbut the but wouldnt go away.
Edith would catch herself stirring her empty teacup, lost in thought.
Daydreaming, Edith? bumped her boss, Mrs. Vera Morton, giving her a kind pat.
Oh No, just nothing, Edith frowned, put the cup aside, and rustled through some paperwork.
So, then, Mrs. Morton settled in, conspiratorial, whats he like up close? Some say hes full of pockmarks. Is it true?
Who are you on about? Edith played dumb.
Oh, you know. Henry Royston. Hes turned many womens heads Dottie from costumes, clever girl, only just got in through some contact, he made quite the fuss of her
What then? Edith looked up, frankly.
Oh you know, swept her off her feet the rest is between them. But you, Edith? I’m not worried for you, youre family, settled, got your David. Not much to worry about, eh?
Right you are. Id better get on, then.
Mrs Morton left. Shed been through it herselfher own daughter, Susan, once caught Henrys eye. Susan had been a middling dancer, but she made a splash at Covent Garden, and Henry flirted shamelessly. He even borrowed Susan from home a few weekends, and when Susan ended up with a child, Henry claimed it wasnt his, accused her of infidelity. No scandal followedMrs Morton took a pay-off; theyd bought Susan and the boy a cottage with the money.
Henry had been younger then, livelier. Now, it seemed, he was drawn to women a little older, Mrs Morton mused, sniffing her bottle of smelling salts before turning to her paperwork.
Edith, for her part, couldnt keep her mind off Royston. She almost forgot to pay at the canteen, nearly missed her bus stop, barely checked Davids homework, overlooked even the lowest marks in his diary. But all of that was trivial. Henry Roystonthe demigodhad promised to phone
He didnt ring that day, nor the next. Whenever the phone rang, Edith would dash ahead of her son, pick up, greet hopefullyonly to be disappointed.
But what if he did ringwhat would she even say? What conversation would she offer, standing in her cramped little hallway? Would she tell him about her perfect pie, or about Davids plans to go on a football trip in spring? That would hardly interest Royston She needed something clever! Tomorrow, shed visit the library and check out a book on ballet, she resolved.
She did just that, telling the others at home it was for work. David felt sorry for her, poring over tiny print, while Alfred chuckled, but Edith kept reading, writing out notes, determined to remember as much as she could.
Espie watched her master fondly, as Royston sat in his armchair, squinting at a scrap of paperEdiths numberbefore pulling the old telephone set onto his lap and dialling, only to snap at the receiver in frustration.
What was her name? Marianne? Sophie? Oh, honestly, could she not have written it down? AhEdith! Like in that old love story.
Once more he tried the number. Espie curled up at his feet.
Hello? Edith? Did I get through? Ah, splendid! I hope Im not disturbing you. Royston gave a sharp little laugh.
Edith, frozen in the hallway, could barely breathe. This was it.
No, not at all. Im completely free, she fibbed. Though in truth, dinner was frying in the kitchen, Alfred would soon be home, and David was outhungry, too, soon enough.
Well then, shall we meet? Theres a charming spot at the edge of town, they serve venison. Edith, do you like venison? He laughed again.
Whats he laughing about? thought Edith, nerves prickling.
I Im not sure
Well then, how about lamb? Lets get you some lovely lamb. Where shall I send the car? the star asked.
No, I couldnt possibly I But she gave her address. Foolish, lonely woman, starved for a bit of gallant attention! Her ears buzzed, heart battered her chest, head pounded. She just had time to finish the frying, left Alfred a note, did her hair, and found an edge-of-town-restaurant-worthy dress.
The car arrived in just twenty minutesthe driver came to the door. Down the stairs came Alfred, too.
It was all awkward at the doorstep as the driver announced he was there for Mr. Roystons guest.
Edith blushed scarlet as she met her husbands eyes, explaining in a fluster that it was for work. Alfred just nodded.
Well, if its work is everything all right? he called up to her as she left.
Yes! Everythings fine. Dinners ready.
The door closed, pulling simple, loving Alfred back inside; the stairwell filled with the scent of fried supper, the next-door dog barked. And Edith climbed into the car, eyes squeezed shut.
The lamb was excellent; Henry was only slightly distracted. The waiters glanced at Edith, a curiosity she could feel.
Are you a regular then? she asked her companion.
Oh, I wont pretend, Edith. Ive brought many a lady here. Women are my weakness. But you He took her hand, gently smoothed her skin, observed a scar where shed once caught the oven, and pressed her fingers to his lipsthe very hand that had kneaded pie less than two hours ago.
Im nobody special, Henry
Oh, but you are. Youre well-read, I could see that immediately. You love ballet. Youve seen my shows? He cocked his head, making his nose look even more angular. No, dont answer. That was rude. Ill give you a ticketto the very best seat. Enough talk of work! Lets enjoy ourselves!
He clapped loudly, as if calling the dancers. Waiters swooped in, poured crimson wine sparkling like rubies under the light
Edith arrived home just before eleven. David was in his room listening to music, her husband already abed.
Whyre you back so late, Mum? David enquired. Been on a date?
She blushed. Thank goodness for the dim hallway.
Oh, dont be silly!
So entered Gloria ShipleyEdiths new old friend whom nobody had seen in years. If Edith was ever out, or on the phone for ages, she was with her.
Wheres she from, anyway, this Gloria? asked Alfred once. Not that he minded, but it was odd.
Hampshire, Edith answered, recalling some choreographer from there. Spent a summer there, its where we met, kept in touch
That was enough for Alfred. You could catch great trout in Hampshire. Probably had met a Gloria there. He thought for a moment if he should look her up, but that was the past, best left alone.
Edith saw Henry rarely. He took her to restaurants, they chatted about the Arts; he would quote the classics, and she was quietly grateful shed done her homework.
What next? Well, nothing really. It was just a harmless flirtation! She hadnt betrayed Alfred, hadnt even kissed Henry. They were just good company, discussing artwhat of it?
If Gloria Shipley called, it was tricky. Sometimes David wanted the phone, Alfred too, waiting for his wife, but Edith would lose herself in talk of Pavlova, Taglioni, Fonteyn.
Gloria would shower Edith with praise, and at the other end, Espie watched her masterso much calmer of late, no more ladies around, kinder even, yoga all but forgotten. Life seemed almost pleasant again.
Then one day Henry said hed had enough of restaurants, and wanted Edith to see his house.
Time for home. You must be curious. And Espie isnt well. Sensitive thing, misses me. Lets go, have a coffee, Ill show you old family albums. All the greats. Come on? He spoke so lightly, so honestly, that Edith hesitated.
She had heard the rumours, of course. But people change, she thought, and anyway, what harm in coffee? She was middle-aged now, nothing improper could happen! She felt sorry for poor Espie, and besides, on such a wet, cold November day, the idea of a warm, welcoming home had its appeal.
Off they went. Past wrought-iron gates to a mansion of slightly gawdy tastecolumns, balconies, odd plasterwork. Edith didnt linger on the style.
Up the gravel walk, through the dripping leaves, the mansion loomed. Angel statues in the garden were all stuck with sodden leaves, which made Henry laugh, and then came the patter of small paws and Espies tail appeared behind the glass.
Come in! Henry swept open the door.
There was a mutual hesitation as Edith and Espie assessed one anothershe even sniffed the air. Something wasnt right The house didnt smell like home. That particular, lived-in scent: polish, baking, laundryevery home has one. At Ediths, the air was always a blend of fresh linen and baking apples. Herenothing. The house was almost clinically empty.
Sterile marble floors, grey walls, bleak black-and-white photos of Henry in performance.
Wheres your kitchen, Henry? Edith asked. She suddenly ached to breathe a bit of homeliness into the house, put the kettle on, bake, do something comfortingfind some mint, or a lemon, make a cup of fragrant tea on the spot
Im acting like a nosy mum! she panicked, glancing at Espie, who quite agreed.
The kitchen, Edith? Here! Henry laughed. Through this door!
Edith followed, expecting a proper cooks palace, but instead found a dark, stuffy little room, full of the sweet reek of roses.
Espie snuffed and tiptoed away. Just another one, that wagging tail seemed to say.
Edith went to ask how to turn on the light, but Henry was already gone.
Make yourself comfortable, Edith. Ill be with you in a moment. His voice receded.
Her eyebrows shot up, hands shook. The arts, the ballet, all forgottenher legs walked her, almost on their own, straight to the door. In her mind, Alfred was looking at her, shaking his head. She was mortified, lost her head entirely!
She rushed into the street, hailed a cab, and hurried home.
Henry stared about his empty cold bedroom, roses in the vases shriveledhe hadnt noticed. Whyd Edith want the kitchen? Water, perhaps? Hed have brought her some.
He wandered the house, calling for her. At last, he sat down and burst into tears.
Espie whimpered beside him. Edith was gone. Theyd been left behind.
She was so different, so alive, so real, Henry even thought of marrying her. But hed ruined everything with his make yourself comfortable
Meanwhile, Edith crept into her quiet flat, slipped off her shoes, hid in the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror, then began, at first quietly, then uncontrollably, to laugh.
Whats up, Edith? Alfred knocked, then scratched anxiously at the door.
Nothing, love! Just got a bit overtired Bedtime, thats all.
Some days later Gloria Shipley rang. Edith nearly put down the phone at once, but puzzled pity for both Henry and poorly Espie stopped her.
Edith comforted them, found the right words, while Henry listened, sitting by Espies basket.
Who was that on the phone? You took ages, Alfred remarked. Gloria again?
Yes, she sighed. Her dogs not well.
Poor thing. Is dinner ready? And at that, Edith would fly to the oven for her golden, plait-crusted pie.
The calls became a daily ritual then. Sometimes Edith answered, other times she had David say she was out. She grew tired of being the consoling voice, but couldnt bring herself to tell Henry not to call. Poor man, all alone in his grey house, with his dog
Royston, at the Royal Opera House, now wandered the halls like a ghost, his dancing grew worse, and by February he retired.
But Mr Royston! Mr. Lamb stammered. Who will we
There are no irreplaceables here, you know that, Henry corrected quietly. Im sorry
Hed completely forgotten Edith worked upstairs in the admin offices, or perhaps simply lived in another world.
He only phoned her one more time, and at the worst moment. It was Ediths birthdaya tableful of friends, flowers from Alfred, their best dishesall as it should be. Then, suddenly, the phone rang
Shall I say youre not in? offered Alfred. Gloria can call back.
No! Let me just get it. Last time, I promise, Alfred Please.
She picked up. Henry told her Espie had pups, and he wanted her to take one.
Why? Edith was nonplussed.
So at least one of Espies puppies might have you. You see Ive fallen for you youre real, not a doll, you remind me of my mum Never mind. Will you take a puppy?
She did, a cheeky ginger-coloured one she called Alfie. Alfie quickly made himself at home, became fast friends with David, but Edith was always his favourite.
Hed greet her at the door, sit there and grin his narrow doggy smile. He knewnobody was better than Edith.
Years went by. Where was Henry Royston now? What was he doing? Edith never knew. Shed told Alfred everything long ago; hed just laughed, not even pretending to be angry.
Still, Edith finds herself wary of the phone, not afraid exactly, just never quite sure how to answer. The past sometimes scratches at the door in her dreams, looks up at her with sad, Royston-like eyes, and whines. Then David walks in, his fiancée Charlotte close behind, and life goes on as it must.
And as for Henry Royston, best soloist of the Royal Opera Housesince his resignation, he lived alone in his pillar-lined house. Sometimes Susan and her son would visit; they would drink coffee from dainty cups, and Henry would look out the window, thinking hed danced and wandered through life, achieved so much, yet felt so very littlejust a flicker of excitement. And love? That, he realised, had been with Edith. The one thing hed never managed to give hera ticket to his show. What a pity…
