Take
over.”
“No, no—I don’t play the piano. Can you accompany for me?”
“Depends what the song is.”
“I expect you know ‘John Brown’s Body’ or ‘Annie Laurie’….”
I then felt a bit uncomfortable myself, chiefly because of the painter,
who was ultrasophisticated about art and might consider songs like that very
naďve; also I thought he’d think Brad had bad manners in putting a stop to my
mother’s singing. I don’t really mind if people have bad manners, but I don’t
like an American to have them in front of an Englishman, or vice versa for
that matter. My mother, of course, carried it off gaily, starting at once
into “Annie Laurie,” and somewhat to everyone’s surprise Brad turned out to
have a rather good baritone. Halfway through my mother joined with him and
made it a duet. They went on after that, singing other songs together, after
which Brad asked her to sing some more on her own, so everything was all
right. He said good-night about eleven, leaving the rest of us to conduct the
post- mortem.
“Well, well,” said my father. “We haven’t had so much music since Cortot
came here.” Maybe he meant that to be ironic.
“He wasn’t so shy this time,” said my mother.
The painter asked who Brad was and what he did. My father answered: “A
young scientist from one of our prairie states; he’s working at University
College where he got a Ph.D. last year.”
I hadn’t known that before.
“Nice voice,” said the painter.
My father smiled. “It’s remarkable for one thing at least, it sings more
readily than it talks.”
“On the other hand, Waring, when it does talk it talks sense. While we
were visiting your gent’s room after dinner I asked him what he thought of
the landscape in the hall—of course he didn’t know it was mine. He said
he didn’t understand why a modern painter would ignore the rules of
perspective without any of the excuses that Botticelli had, and I thoroughly
agreed with him. I’m fed up with that pseudoprimitive stuff I went in for
years ago.”
My father said: “I wouldn’t have thought he knew anything about
Botticelli.”
“He knows how to sing too,” said my mother. “I mean how to
sing— though I don’t suppose he’s ever been taught. His breathing’s
exceptionally good.”
“He takes long walks,” I said. “Maybe that helps.”
Anyhow, the whole evening was a success, after all my fears that it
wouldn’t be.
* * * * *
From then on I’d see him fairly often, but not to say more
than a few
words to. I sometimes went to the A.B.C. shop where he had his regular lunch
of a roll and butter and a glass of milk, we smiled across the crowded room,
or he’d stop to say hello if my table was on his way to the cash desk. Twice,
I think, I joined him because there was no place elsewhere, but he was just
about to leave, so there wasn’t much conversation. And another time the
waitress said when she came to take my order: “Dr. Bradley isn’t here yet.
It’s only seven past twelve and he never comes in till ten past. We tell the
time by him.” She must have thought I was looking for him.
One lunchtime he threaded his way deliberately amongst the tables towards
mine. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” he began, sitting down. “I’ve
been thinking I ought to return your parents’ hospitality. Of course I don’t
have a house where I could very well ask them to dinner….”
“Oh, they know that—they wouldn’t expect it—”
“But perhaps a hotel—I wondered if you could tell me any particular
place they like.”
My father liked Claridge’s and my mother the Berkeley, either of which
would have cost him at least a week’s pay. So I said: “They really don’t care
much for dining at hotels at all…. Why don’t you ask them to tea? I know
they’d love that.”
“Tea?… That’s an idea. Just afternoon tea—like the English?”
“My mother is English.”
“Tea and crumpets, then.”
“Not crumpets in the middle of June. Just tea.”
“And what hotel?”
“Does it have to be any hotel? Why don’t you make tea in your lab? Mathews
does.”
“Mathews? You know him? We might invite him too.” I didn’t know what he
meant by “we” till he added: “Would you help?”
“With the tea? Why yes, of course.”
It was fun making preparations.
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