FAINT HARMONY, the second novel in the MALCOLM CRAIG QUARTET by FIONA COMPTON.

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A random excerpt from the book:

1943 Singing at the CAA – Malcolm and Marina.

Malcolm was not looking forward to seeing his ex-wife Sally Bryant, the hostess at the Concert Artistes’ Association Concert after the recent uncomfortable meeting he had had with his lawyer. Marina had finally persuaded him to do his best to get out of paying further alimony to Sally despite the court order made against him during the divorce proceedings.

“If you’re paying for the boys’ education, we simply can’t afford to pay Sally as well,” Marina had said. “It isn’t as though she’s destitute, is she? At the moment she’s paid fairly regularly by ENSA for all the tours she’s doing for them, and she’s always managed to find stage work, although obviously not in the same class as ours of course. See what you can do about it.”

Malcolm felt ashamed that he had agreed to do what Marina asked rather than risk another debilitating fight with her. He knew the pattern of their fights only too well by now. If she did not get her own way there was a bitter shouting match, followed by a prolonged sulk and withdrawal of her sexual favours for weeks on end. He was surprised that they still managed to perform together on stage during the sulky periods as though they were just as much in love with one another as ever. After the final curtain call and signing autographs for their many fans as they left the theatre, Marina enclosed herself in the sulk again as though the intimate performance on stage had never happened.

Sometimes Malcolm looked back with longing on his uncomplicated marriage to Sally and wondered why he had ended it in order to marry Marina. He and Sally had agreed on most things. Their infrequent quarrels had always ended before they slept when they were both only too glad to kiss and make up. After a night of torrid and extremely satisfying love-making neither of them remembered what their quarrel had been about in the first place – at least – not until he met Marina. Then all their quarrels were about Marina and the impending divorce and no longer always ended in a night in bed together.

Sally might be earning regular money from ENSA but it was a pittance compared with the big money he and Marina were commanding these days. On his visit to the lawyer he had been told that Sally had every right to take him to court if he withheld her alimony and if she did take this course of action, she would certainly win her case. In fact, the judge would probably increase her alimony payments because he was earning far more now than at the time when he and Sally were divorced five years earlier. He had been very surprised that, so far, she had not taken any action against him when she would have certainly been victorious.

Malcolm and Marina had moved from the flat and were now living in a palatial villa with a big garden in a fashionable suburb north west of London. They employed domestic staff, a manager and a full time accompanist. They drove an expensive car, although, because of petrol rationing they could not drive it as often or as far as they would have liked. He had thought it petty and mean-spirited not to carry on paying Sally’s alimony when he could afford to do so, but Marina had been adamant about it. In public she deferred to him as a shy, adoring wife, gazing at him in wonder. At home, she was definitely the boss.

SALLY BRYANT

Here we were in the middle of 1943, still living in the Muswell Hill flat which had survived the blitz despite the devastation of so many other properties in nearby streets. Vera and I had expected to have travelled to all the war zones in the world with ENSA by this time, but most of our concerts had been held in various parts of Britain, more often than not at military hospitals, village halls and munitions factories. Our particular party was made up of women of all ages, but most of the men were over the age of call up for it was a very rare occurrence that younger men could get exemption from military service to become entertainers with ENSA unless they had some medical problem which had prevented them from playing an active part in armed combat.

The munitions workers usually worked night shift as their factories were disguised as something more innocuous, so we often did one show at midnight and another in the early hours of the morning as a bit of respite for the next shift of tired workers.

I could never get used to seeing the wounded soldiers in hospitals, many of them probably wondering how they would manage to face civilian life after the war, some blinded, some burnt, some without legs or arms. Many would be confined to wheel chairs for the rest of their lives. We were all gratified to see their anxiety dissolve during the hour or two we managed to entertain them, making them laugh, and forget their pain and anxiety for the short time we spent with them.

At the rate we were going, we would need to be inoculated all over again if we were eventually called on to travel to war zones abroad, for the original jabs that were done at Drury Lane at the beginning of the war would have expired by that time!

During the worst of the blitz Vera and I had makeshift beds made up on mattresses inside the Morrison shelter installed in our Muswell Hill flat. This shelter doubled up as our dining room table during the day. When the air raid warning sounded we would stagger from our warm beds and make our way to this cramped shelter in our small dining room. Vera was petrified at the noise and chaos of the falling bombs, the anti-aircraft guns, the aeroplanes overhead and the searchlights on the ground trying to locate them. She was far more afraid than me that our building might receive a direct hit, so we often clung together for warmth and comfort, covering our heads under our blankets in a vain attempt to deaden the abrupt sound of bombs hissing and exploding around us, sometimes at a distance, sometimes very close to home, until the all clear sounded – more often than not only in the early hours of the morning. Just like everyone else who had survived yet another sleepless and terrified night, we still had to rise, face the new day and get on with our work, no matter how little sleep we had the night before.

And what of Malcolm in the midst of all the carnage? I was so busy performing and preparing new routines for future concerts that I had little chance to think clearly about how much I still missed him, but no matter what I was doing, there was always a nagging ache in my heart which made life far less palatable than it had been when we were happily married and I had been under the illusion that our marriage would last forever. I had always known the worth of his beautiful voice and would never forget. the happy times when we had appeared together at joint engagements, particularly that shining summer season when we had worked together with the Starlight Concert Party in Margate. All these years later, it was still very difficult for me to accept that those days were gone forever.

Of course I didn’t begrudge him becoming a top oratorio soloist and taking his rightful place at so many performances at the Royal Albert Hall and with the Hallé orchestra in Manchester. He had been singing at the Queens Hall shortly before it was destroyed by a Nazi incendiary bomb. He had always considered that hall to be his favourite, so I knew he must have been very sad to see it brought to ruin in a matter of minutes.

In the dark, uncertain days of the early forties I was upset that Malcolm was now so busy with the lighter side of entertainment with Marina that he was probably unable to accept many serious engagements.

Malcolm and Marina Dunbar were doing well in their joint career on the variety circuit where they had become popular and well-paid star variety artistes in a very short time. They were soon making records together, appearing in musicals together, singing on the radio together, and making films together.

They had received very bad publicity in newspapers and magazines about our divorce and all our old friends had felt sorry for me having to go through the whole thing on my own, but of course people have remarkably short memories.

Once Malcolm and Marina started performing together, audiences had taken to them in a big way and our old friends who had supported me staunchly during the divorce, were inclined to distance themselves from me and renew their friendship with the more successful Malcolm and Marina, leaving me to get on with my life as best I could.

They were all over the place. It was very difficult to avoid them. If there wasn’t an article about them and their ideal marriage in the illustrated papers, they were on the radio, and singing in variety theatres all over the country playing to crowded houses, the majority of the audience being women snatching a night of relaxation and enjoyment as a break from their strenuous wartime lives so filled with anxiety.

These women, clad in their drab pre-war wardrobes, unable to buy anything new because of the stringent limitations of clothing rationing, were suitably amazed at Marina, bedecked in jewels, and wearing a series of glamorous gowns as though there was no such thing as wartime rationing and austerity. They all wondered how she managed to appear so sumptuously clad when they were all making do and mending their old clothes furiously, but still fighting a losing battle to look attractive and feminine. Most of these young women’s husbands were absent,. serving in the war in some capacity or other. Even though they were tired after doing war work, often spending sleepless nights in air raid shelters, and caring for their children, they were also sex-starved and all too ready to be enthralled by Malcolm’s beautiful voice, immaculate appearance and handsome looks. Their husbands might be absent, but by the way Malcolm treated his wife on stage, they could all imagine only too well how he would treat her in the bedroom.

They probably went home after the show to dream of him as they settled down to sleep in lonely double beds which they had once shared with absent husbands who had made love to them regularly and vigorously several times a week or more if they were lucky. If the women in their audience had such dreams about Malcolm, they were not mistaken in them. The ethereal Marina would be enjoying what I had once enjoyed, nearly every single night when he and Marina arrived home, elated and excited after another triumphant performance. Like all the women out there with absent husbands who would return to them when the war was over, I could only dream about Malcolm, who would never return to me.

Certainly people in the profession wondered why they hadn’t joined ENSA like the rest of us. We heard a rumour that Malcolm was unable to travel to the tropics because he suffered from a chronic illness and therefore could not be inoculated against certain tropical diseases. As long as I had been married to him I had known nothing about this mysterious disease. He had always seemed perfectly healthy and vigorous to me. Even after our divorce, I still wanted to believe the best of Malcolm, but even I could not help thinking that the chronic disease had raised its head quite opportunely as far as performing in tropical climes for ENSA was concerned.

I had also heard about the son he had discovered a year or two earlier. Apparently the boy and his younger brother often spent their school holidays with him and Marina, and Malcolm was paying their school fees at a good private school near Wigton where they lived.

In the meantime I had been absolutely shocked when I was notified by Malcolm’s lawyer that he wanted to stop paying alimony to me because he had taken responsibility for the education of his son and his brother, and therefore couldn’t afford to pay my alimony any longer! After the shoddy way in which I had been treated, I had never had any qualms about accepting the alimony payments. I had certainly suffered great emotional pain when Malcolm had discarded me in favour of Marina Dunbar.

I was earning about £10 a week from going on numerous rigorous ENSA tours. We would do two or three performances a day often after travelling vast distances in an uncomfortable charabanc, while he and Marina probably received more than ten times that amount for one concert in a comfortable warm theatre or concert hall. I had every right to insist that he should go on paying me the alimony to which I was entitled. But, for some reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to challenge him about it. The thought of fighting the shameful case in the courts was too much for me. It would be as unpleasant an experience as standing by myself in that unfriendly divorce court. I was the wronged party, but I was the one who had to appear in court and go into the most intimate details of the breakdown of our marriage. If he didn’t want to pay the alimony rightfully due to me, I wasn’t going to beg for it and set myself up as a helpless victim, even though I would be begging for something that was rightfully mine. I might not have been in Malcolm’s class in the profession, but I had been earning my own living on the stage from the age of eighteen.

-O-

Vera and I were still active members of the CAA. I was alarmed to discover that I had been booked as the hostess at a Monday night concert when Malcolm and Marina were due to sing after we had watched the acts of those who were hoping to be accepted as members of the CAA by showing us that they were good enough to join the ranks of the pros.

“You’ll have to find a substitute,” I told Ernie, who had organised that particular concert. “I can never have anything to do with the Craigs now that I’m divorced from Malcolm. Surely you should have had the common sense to realise that, Ernie.”

“I’d forgotten that you had ever been married to the man! It’s far too late to find someone else now, Sally,” he said. “You’re a pro. I know you’ll be able to handle it without breaking down or causing any embarrassment to the Craigs. We’re extremely lucky that they have a gap in their diary and are free to sing for us. I wouldn’t want anything to go wrong.”

There was nothing much I could do on this particular occasion but I made up my mind to stipulate that I would never accept work on the same bill as my ex-husband or his present wife in future. But what difference would that clause make? I would be the loser in the long run. They were the stars. Who would care whether I was on the bill or not? Ernie could easily find someone else who would be only too glad to act as hostess at any concert featuring this scintillating couple.

The first half of the concert went according to plan. I did my best to put all the young hopefuls at ease. None of them were shrinking violets but they probably found their appearance before fellow performers far more nerve-wracking than anything they had done before. To be accepted into the CAA because fellow artistes had approved of them was one of the most satisfying achievements of their lives. I remembered how I had been accepted into the CAA at the tender age of eighteen after presenting my own act to this same critical, but encouraging, audience.

Malcolm and Marina arrived during the interval. They gave me a very frosty greeting when they met me in the Concert Hall. They certainly didn’t appear at all put out that I was to be the hostess that night. I, on the other hand, was trembling and near to tears after they swept past me to greet some of their friends most effusively. I didn’t much care whether Marina acknowledged me or not, but to have Malcolm treat me like a distant stranger was more than I could bear. I had no idea how I was going to get through that night.

Consequently, introducing them to the audience in that intimate concert hall of the CAA, was a far more harrowing experience than I had imagined. I really don’t know how I managed it, but I introduced their act with a light and cheerful touch, as though I was delighted that they were there and couldn’t give a damn that I was introducing the ex-husband I still loved and the woman who had usurped me.

But after that introduction which had taken every ounce of my professional experience to accomplish, I had to rush to the cloakroom and retch my guts out in the nearest toilet. By the time I had stopped shivering and retching, and had managed to rinse out my mouth, wash my pallid face, and reapply my streaked makeup, I had missed half of their sugary performance – just as well, as far as I was concerned! I slipped back to my place in the hall, still shivering. I don’t think anyone noticed that I had been away. The audience was far too engrossed in listening to the star performers.

As usual, they were beautifully groomed and dressed, as though they were appearing at the Palladium rather than in the more intimate and informal concert hall of the CAA. I wondered by what means Marina had acquired her exquisite midnight blue gown in the middle of the war. He wore a gardenia in the buttonhole of his finely tailored dress suit. The suit was a cut above the one he had worn for concert performances when he was married to me. No doubt he had a smart and expensive tailor in Saville Row these days, not to mention having his shoes hand made from a last! by someone equally fashionable and expensive.

Their whole act pivoted on their apparent adoration of one for the other. They made sickly, arch remarks, calling each other intimate pet names, gazing into each other’s eyes with unrestrained adoration. Despite my discomfort, I felt sad to see Malcolm singing trite romantic duets with Marina, taking care to tone down his wonderful voice to blend it considerately with her thin, scooping, sugary soprano. I thought the rest of the pro audience would see through all that excess of synthetic honey, but, no! They applauded loudly and were as delighted with their performance as any less sophisticated audience in a provincial variety hall.

I felt sad that Malcolm had put on a performance like that in front of me and that he hardly acknowledged my presence at all. I hoped I could leave when everyone was having drinks afterwards, but I was still the hostess of the evening, for my sins. I was supposed to make everyone feel comfortable while all I wanted to do was to curl up in a dark corner and die. I need not have worried. Nobody paid any attention to me. Even my close friends at the CAA had forgotten quickly enough that Malcolm and I had once been man and wife. They flocked round Marina and Malcolm, congratulating them on their performance. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Marina head for the cloakroom by herself. Perhaps she felt as sick at the insincerity of the evening as much as I had done. I wondered if Malcolm might at least greet me properly now that she was out of the room. So much for our years of marriage.

I tried to make light-hearted conversation with some of my friends, but I was a poor companion that night. My usual vivacity and sparkle had deserted me.

I was suddenly aware of a tall figure looming over me. He spoke to me in bracing tones as though he was addressing a casual acquaintance and not the woman with whom he had once shared every possible intimacy.

“Sally, my dear. How are you? We didn’t realise you were to be the hostess tonight until the very last minute. I don’t suppose you wanted to introduce us any more than we wanted you to do so. We could all have ended up feeling very awkward, but you made it easy for us. You’re a real pro, as always.”

I turned to look at Malcolm. I knew then that I would never “get over” him as long as I lived. It didn’t matter what he had done to hurt me in the past, I was silly, deluded, and weak enough to forgive him anything.

“Malcolm,” I breathed. “I wanted someone else to take over from me when I heard you were going to sing here tonight too, but apparently it was too late for Ernie to find someone else at short notice.”

“I’ve often wondered how you were getting on, Sally and I’m so sorry about the alimony. I hope you don’t mind about it, but I’ve had a lot of extra expenses lately paying for my son and his brother’s education. I could hardly send Graham to a private school and leave Edgar to make do with the local county school, could I?”

I could hardly believe what he was saying. How dared he plead poverty to me when we were poles apart in what we earned? Yet he looked at me with those sad brown eyes so that I almost felt sorry for him, although I was the one who was being done out of what was rightfully mine. It took all the self-control I could muster not to lose my temper and shout at him, or burst into floods of tears. Vera and I were really struggling to pay the rent on the Muswell Hill flat now that the alimony payments had ceased.

“Of course I mind,” I replied coldly, “How could you possibly think that I don’t mind? I’m going to have to move somewhere cheaper soon for we can’t really afford the flat any more. I didn’t take any action because I just couldn’t face going to court again to challenge you about it, so it looks like you’ve got your own way again. You and your new wife are doing very well for yourselves in comparison to me. I would have thought you could very well afford to go on paying me. I just can’t believe that it was you who decided not to pay my alimony any more. Have you forgotten what we once meant to one another?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed and he was probably very relieved to see Marina walking purposefully towards us before he could answer me. She had been charming everyone in the room, but she certainly did not look her usual smiling and charming self as she approached us. She glanced at me suspiciously. The way she was behaving you would have thought that I had done something wrong instead of them. She ignored me completely and spoke directly to Malcolm.

“I think it’s time to be going now, darling,” she murmured, putting her hand on his shoulder possessively. “We have a table booked at that sweet little restaurant. Have you forgotten?”

Malcolm mumbled a shame-faced goodnight to me under his breath as Marina put her arm through his, as though warning me to leave her husband alone and not dare do anything further about the alimony he had stopped paying me. I watched their sombre mood change swiftly as they left me standing all by myself feeling completely drained by the taxing evening.

They were saying light and frothy goodbyes to everyone. Even those who had despised Marina and supported me when I was divorcing Malcolm, were fawning on them now. My knees were trembling and I thought I was going to be sick again. I forgot my duties as a hostess. I went to the cloakroom, found my raincoat and umbrella and left the warmth of the club without anyone noticing that I was leaving. As I walked through the damp and darkened streets all by myself, I glimpsed Marina and Malcolm’s imposing car passing me by. To make matters worse, at just that moment, the air raid warning siren sounded. Somehow, I didn’t much care if I was annihilated by a bomb that night. All I could think about was how Malcolm and Marina had managed to build such happy and successful lives and careers on the back of my misery, without giving me a second thought.

JUST THE ECHO OF A SIGH: The first novel in the Malcolm Craig Quartet by FIONA COMPTON.

I have been writing novels and short stories for a number of years. Because of my musical background most of my writing has a musical theme. Fiona Compton is my pen name for my fiction writing. I was born in the United Kingdom and have been living in South Africa for some years. .https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/fiona_compton

“Just the Echo of a Sigh” is the first novel in a series about famous British tenor, Malcolm Craig, his career and his complicated love life. The first book covers the period of his youth until the beginning of World War Two. This book was completed during NaNoWriMo month of November. 2011.

A random excerpt:

PROLOGUE

FELICITY GREGORY

“Your tiny hand is frozen; let me warm it into mine…”

Malcolm Craig cast his eyes over the first few rows of the audience in St Mary’s Church Hall.  There were few signs of the latest liberated fashions of the twenties amongst the women in this staid, largely middle-aged crowd. Even most of the young women there were clad in the fashions and sombre colours of the previous decade. Not many flappers, with bobbed hair and close-fitting cloche hats were to be found in this conservative crowd. Many of those in the audience were still mourning the loss of their loved ones who had died in the Great War or had come home physically or mentally maimed. Others had succumbed to the Spanish ‘flu pandemic at the end of the decade. The only vanity the women displayed were cumbersome ornate hats which blocked the view of the stage to those seated behind them.

He was reaching the climax of the aria from La Bohème where his full attention should have been on the delicate high note at the end of the aria, when he caught sight of Felicity at last. She was further back than he had expected, seated demurely between her stern father and her scrawny twittery mother. Her two younger brothers completed the Gregory family party who were present at St Mary’s especially to hear Felicity’s young man singing.

Malcolm was going to London the following week to begin rehearsals for the new season of the touring Kings Opera Company. Despite his outstanding voice, his singing would be confined to the chorus, with only the occasional small role to fulfil, and although he would be given leading parts to understudy it was unlikely that many of the principals would be absent and give him a chance to stand in for them.

He took the last note of the aria in a delicate falsetto, and the audience erupted into cheers for Mr and Mrs Craigs’ gifted son. He acknowledged the applause gracefully and drew his accompanist, the old Church organist and choirmaster, who had known Malcolm since his early days as a mellifluous boy alto, forward to receive his share of appreciation for the performance. He looked directly at Felicity and was gratified to see that she was applauding wildly. With the lights up, he saw that her face was flushed and her eyes were shining. She was aglow with the unaccustomed excitement of the occasion. All this applause was for her boyfriend who had acquitted himself beyond everyone’s expectations in his first solo recital.

Tea would be served to the audience after the concert, as it was on every occasion. The vicar believed that half the people present came to enjoy the liberal tea rather than because they were really interested in the event itself. Already stalwarts of the Mothers’ Union were gathering in the hall kitchen, competing with the applause as they clattered cups and saucers into position on the long trestle tables. The last thing Malcolm wanted to do after his recital was to make polite conversation with his large family and Felicity and her parents over a cup of weak lukewarm tea and a slice of seed cake. He wanted Felicity all to himself, to hold her tightly in his arms and see her rejoice in his good fortune. But he knew he would have to break the news of his change of career to them before he could relax and enjoy the success of the evening. He joined his parents and his older brothers and sisters, as they waited for tea to be served. Already he was feeling far more nervous about the ordeal to follow than he had been about giving the recital.

“That was wonderful, Malcolm,” said his mother proudly. ‘You’re as good as a real professional singer now. It was so good of you to sing for your old friends at St Mary’s and help the vicar to raise money for the Organ Fund.”

His father growled in agreement and his older sisters and brothers crowded round him, eager to be associated with their talented and attractive young brother, who, at the age of twenty, towered above his parents and siblings.

“Glad you all enjoyed it,” he replied nonchalantly. “But I could certainly do with more than a cup of tea after that lot! I’m exhausted!”

The vicar creaked up the stairs to the hall stage during the tea. He called authoritatively for silence so that he might give his prepared vote of thanks to Malcolm. He announced triumphantly that the Church had raised a considerable amount towards the Organ Fund from the proceeds of the concert. Gloved hands applauded warmly, if mutely, and Malcolm smiled modestly, silently acknowledging the gratitude of the congregation.

Some of Malcolm’s old school mates approached him diffidently. When they were younger they had been his boon companions, cheering themselves hoarse in support of the local football team, but now Malcolm’s burgeoning gift set him apart from them, although he himself had not changed for he had always been able to sing. Since he had begun serving articles in a Birmingham firm of accountants, studying singing in his spare time and singing tenor solos for various choral societies, he had not had time to go to football matches any more. He had also been advised that he could ruin his voice if he cheered on his team with abandon every week.

He reached Felicity at last, relieved to see that her parents were momentarily away from her, doing their duty by mingling with their middle-aged, middle class companions.

“That was beautiful, Malcolm,” Felicity whispered, as he reached for her hand, warm through her glove, quite unlike the tiny hand of his recent aria. “My stomach was turning over with excitement when I listened to you. Were you singing just for me?”

“Always for you, darling,” he replied hoarsely.

Her red hair shone like a bright cap on her well-shaped head. She looked pretty, pert and modern with her new hairstyle, but Malcolm regretted the loss of her unruly curls, which she used to pin up with pretty tortoiseshell clasps. On the few occasions they had managed to be alone together he had delighted in freeing her hair from the clasps and running his hands through her shining luxuriant curls as he held her close.

Extract from LOVE SET TO MUSIC by FIONA COMPTON.

Malcolm Craig – April 1957 Opening a Singing Studio.

There was nothing more to be done. We had sung at concerts, taken roles in musicals, appeared in film adverts, and made some radio broadcasts. If wealth could have been measured by the number of times our photos appeared in the society pages of the local newspapers, we would have been the richest people in Jo’burg! The truth was that we really couldn’t live on what we were earning. The money we had managed to bring to South Africa together with what we had left in a bank before we returned to England after our tour was fast disappearing. We had to cast our net wider in order to continue living with a certain degree of comfort. Reluctantly, we realised we had no alternative but to start teaching singing, certainly the last thing I had ever wanted to do.

I had been blessed with a good voice and had never needed to work very hard in order to improve it. To tell the truth, I had absolutely no idea how to teach other people to sing. On the other hand, Marina had worked diligently to improve her small voice and rid herself of a range of vocal faults. She was always telling me that things had come far too easily to me, while things had been difficult for her. Despite all her hard work, her voice remained average in comparison to mine. That might sound very big-headed, but it was no more than the truth.

For a very reasonable rental, we found a charming, airy studio on the eighth floor of a building in central Johannesburg. From the balcony leading off the studio we had a fine view of the hustle and bustle of the city. Across the road from the studio we had competition from three little boys who appeared every morning to play Kwela music on a penny whistle, guitar, and a bass made of a tea chest with strings attached to it. We moved our Chappell Grand piano, a fine Wilton carpet and a full length mirror into the studio. With the aid of a fitted cover and matching cushions Marina managed to turn a rather pedestrian divan into a fashionable studio couch. There were roomy shelves at one end of the room so we brought all our music in and filled the empty shelves with our large collection of songs and scores. Marina had a glass panel erected above the studio couch and we placed numerous photos of ourselves in various shows and with some of our famous colleagues from our days in the UK behind it. We had a phone connected in the tiny room leading off the studio which we grandly called “the office”, bought a smart leather-covered appointment book, put several classified advertisements in the local newspapers advertising our services, and waited for a rush of prospective pupils to phone for an audition and put in an appearance.

We even held a studio-warming cocktail party one evening in anticipation of the arrival of our prospective students. All the well-known musical and theatrical folk we had met attended the get together, along with friends we had made since our arrival in Johannesburg. Some genuinely wished us well in our new venture, while others attended out of mere curiosity to see how we had arranged our studio, and perhaps hoping that our latest venture would fall flat very soon.

“It’s very charming,” said one of the local singers who ran a large and successful teaching practice in the city, styling herself as Madame Ricardo. I sensed a “but” was to follow, and I was right. “But where are all your music diplomas and degrees? You should put up all your qualification certificates on the wall. Even though you are famous compared with the rest of us poor locals, parents usually like to see that you have letters after your name before they hand out their money to you every month. I have one wall of my studio simply plastered with all my music diplomas – you must come up and see it one day.”

Marina and I smiled at Madame Ricardo and murmured non-commitally. Truth to tell, neither of us had a diploma or a degree to our names! Despite the lack of these paper qualifications we had enjoyed careers these locals could only dream about. Had Madame Ricardo, with her wall plastered with all her musical qualifications, ever sung in the Albert Hall or at Drury Lane? Having letters after her name did not automatically mean that she was a capable performer.

“And of course, you must join the South African Society of Music Teachers,” Madame Ricardo continued. “I’ll be very happy to nominate you for membership. All you have to do is fill out a form listing all your qualifications and your teaching experience.”

We moved on to greet our other guests without giving her the satisfaction of admitting to our lack of professional qualifications. Presumably the Society of Music Teachers would turn us down flat as we had neither qualifications nor any teaching experience! Not for the first time, I wondered if I was living in the middle of a terrible nightmare from which I might never wake up!

We had a number of curious inquiries from our classified advert, but few followed up their initial enquiry when we told them the fee we were asking. We had assumed that we would charge the same sort of fee we had heard quoted before we left London. One of my colleagues had retired from the concert platform and was running a successful and busy teaching studio from his home in Highgate. Before we left the UK he had told us what he charged for lessons. We had reckoned on charging the same in Johannesburg, but we had not bothered to ask the local teachers with all those impressive letters after their name, what the average local fee was. Before we even had a chance to gain experience in teaching, we had effectively priced ourselves out of the local market.

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THE RECORD CONTRACT by FIONA COMPTON.

Gingerly Heather Craig nibbled on the thin slice of dry toast and drained her cup of weak black tea. The morning sickness was getting worse and she didn’t know if she could hide her pregnant state from Malcolm for much longer. She was relieved that she had an appointment with her gynaecologist that morning, and not a moment too soon.

Mrs Hubbard bustled into the dining room with the first post. Malcolm’s agent had forwarded the week’s fan mail, so she put the pile of letters at Malcolm’s place. The pile was not quite as high as it had been four or five years earlier, but it was still sizeable. In contrast, Heather received a few accounts and the weekly letter from her mother. Heather noticed that the month’s copy of Gramophone had arrived, probably containing the anticipated review of Malcolm’s first long-playing record.

Heather decided to read the review before Malcolm came down for breakfast. He was due at the recording studios later that morning for his regular recording session. She had difficulty in locating the review as it was much shorter than she had anticipated. As she read the brief review her nausea returned, this time brought on by shock and dismay. One sentence stood out above all the others.

“Only Malcolm Craig’s most ardent fans will enjoy this innocuous collection of highly forgettable songs.”

Heather heard Malcolm’s footsteps on the staircase and hurriedly hid the periodical under her chair. This spiteful piece was the last thing he needed to see before his recording session and the Watford concert that evening.

“You’re up early, darling,” he remarked as he planted a kiss on the top of her blonde head. “Have another cup of tea and keep me company while I eat.”

Malcolm poured some strong tea into her cup, but she knew she would not be able to take a sip of it.

Malcolm glanced perfunctorily through his post.

“No sign of the Gramophone?” he asked casually.

“Perhaps it’ll come by the second post.” Heather tried to sound light and cheerful, willing her warring stomach to settle down. She bent down and somehow managed to hide the offending periodical under her red dressing gown, before fleeing from the table. Just in time she managed to reach the privacy of the bathroom before nausea overwhelmed her completely. Malcolm would have to wait until tomorrow before he faced some unpleasant reading.

-0-

It was March 1951 and Malcolm Craig’s recording contract was due for renewal. The ritual was always the same. Each year, for the last twenty years, Frank Downey, the managing director of the famous BRG recording studio in Wigmore Street, would arrive before the session and invite Malcolm into his office to sign the new contract when he had finished his work. The business concluded, Downey would offer him a tot of his excellent single malt whisky.

“How are you, Malcolm?” Frank Downey greeted Malcolm Craig effusively. “Would you mind calling into my office after your recording session? I have some business to discuss with you.”

Malcolm Craig recorded the eight selected songs in less than three hours. He was an excellent sight-reader, so all he needed was a brief run through with the eminent accompanist, George Manning, before he was ready to lay the cake on the table.

He listened to the takes with his producer and George Manning, then, satisfied with the morning’s work, made his way up to Frank Downey’s sumptuous office to find the gentleman already hovering at the door ready to greet him.

Downey ushered Malcolm to the plush leather chair facing his large oak desk. Usually the contract was lying on the desk waiting for him, a gold Schaeffer pen near at hand, ready for him to sign on the dotted line. But today the desk was bare and Malcolm speculated about the empty desk and why Downey appeared so fidgety and uncomfortable.

“Is the contract late?” Malcolm asked, trying not to show concern.

“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you, Malcolm,” Frank began. “What with the advent of the LP and changes in people’s taste since the war, your records are just not selling the way they used to.”

Downey watched Malcolm’s rugged face slowly lose its colour. He really had not reckoned on the man passing out on him.

Despite his pallor, Malcolm spoke in measured tones.

“Frank, I’ve known you too long to listen to a lot of soft soap. Are you telling me you’re not renewing my contract?”

“I’m so sorry, Malcolm. I fought against it of course, but I was outvoted.”

As though to console Malcolm, he added brightly, “You’re not the only one to suffer – we’re not renewing the contracts of many of our gifted pre-war artistes. They’re all still in good voice, but there’s no demand for them these days. I’m really sorry.”

Malcolm’s legs were trembling. Despite being nearly fifty, and one of Britain’s’ greatest and most versatile tenors, he was close to tears. He was still in the prime of his vocal life, and here he was being discharged like an indolent office boy. He was due to sing at a concert in Watford that evening. After this blow he would need all his professional expertise to carry the engagement off successfully.

He rose to his feet, willing himself to leave with dignity before he broke down.

“There’s nothing more to be said then,” he said baldly. “No doubt you’ll send any money owing to my agent.”

“Please don’t leave like this, Malcolm! Have a whisky with me for old time’s sake,” pleaded Downey.

What was there left to discuss now that he had no contract binding him to the company? The whisky would choke him. He turned on his heel and walked out of the office, and left the building without a word of farewell to anyone. He gained the privacy of his Wolseley, lit a forbidden Capstan and drew on it deeply. Concert and radio dates had been falling off a bit lately, but he and Heather relied on the steady income from his recordings to keep them in comfort. What was he to tell her?

He made his way to his comfortable home in Hampstead, aware that he would probably never drive the same route again. He wondered whether his voice, the splendid gift he had taken for granted since childhood, could be failing him. But that couldn’t be right. He had just heard the recordings he had made that very day. His voice sounded better than ever. As he edged the big car slowly up the driveway, he glimpsed Heather, in tiny pink shorts and a bright seersucker top, sunbathing on a deck chair near the rose bower.

He had met Heather in a concert party in Margate, a few years after he had signed his first record contract, a gorgeous blonde of twenty, with sea green eyes and a complexion like a ripe peach. Her stunning looks and charm excused the fact that her voice, though pretty and sweet, was merely run of the mill. She had managed to make a stage career for herself because of her looks and charming personality.

They had fallen in love, and spent every free moment together, mingling with the holidaymakers licking cornets, while their children were having special treats seated on the staid donkeys on the beach. The light-hearted atmosphere on the seafront contrasted with their seaside lodgings where they were surrounded by elderly corseted widows in the dining room and the lounge.

They were married at the end of the season and Heather was only too happy to stop attending audition calls to take on her new role as Malcolm’s dutiful and loving wife. In those heady days he was in great demand for West End musicals, oratorios, Masonic Concerts, recording and broadcasting for the BBC, Radio Luxembourg and Radio Normandy.

Malcolm’s successful singing career gave them all the luxuries of life, but their mutual desire for children remained unfulfilled. Heather had twice fallen pregnant, but had miscarried both times. They eventually accepted that they would be childless and transferred their thwarted parental instincts to their two Scotties, Whisky and Soda.

Malcolm emerged from his reverie and watched Heather as she lounged, half-asleep in the sun without a care in the world. The two dogs had been cavorting around the garden, always with half an eye on their beloved mistress, but now they bounded in his direction to greet him with an effusion he found difficult to reciprocate that day.

-0-

Heather had kept her appointment with her gynaecologist. Dr Urquhart, an elderly Scot, did a thorough unhurried examination to which Heather submitted with stoicism. She had been through such inspections before to no avail. At the age of forty she had not held out very great optimism that she could have a child at such an advanced stage of life.

“I can safely say your pregnancy is going smoothly, Mrs Craig,” he said with a rare smile. “You’ll have to take things easy for you are not young as far as child-bearing is concerned and you have had two problem pregnancies before, but if you look after yourself I see no reason why you shouldn’t carry this infant to full term.”

-0-

“Darling!”

Heather had seen Malcolm’s car at last and hurried to him, eager to kiss him and tell him her glad news right away, but her elation evaporated at the sight of his haggard face.

“Did you sign your new contract?” she asked uncertainly, knowing before he spoke that all was far from well.

“There is no new contract,” Malcolm murmured under his breath. “I’m finished at BRG. I’m sorry, darling.”

Heather took his hand in hers, hurt to see her usually cheerful uncomplicated husband so downcast.

“It doesn’t make sense. You’ve never sounded better. Did Frank give you an explanation? There must be a mistake.”

“They’re getting rid of a lot of us pre-war singers because public tastes have changed. The British public prefers crooners these days. I fear my days as a singer are numbered.”

“Nonsense! As soon as other companies hear you’re free they’ll jump at you,” said Heather hopefully.

“I don’t think so,” replied Malcolm dejectedly. “I’m getting an old man.”

“Rubbish!” she said. “You’re not even fifty. You have years ahead of you as a singer.”

“I’m too upset to talk about it. I still have to get through that concert in Watford tonight, though I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to do so.”

Her heart went out to him in his misery. She decided to postpone her news until after the concert. The copy of the Gramophone was under her side of the mattress. It would be a while before she would produce it. He didn’t need another knock for a while.

Malcolm bathed and changed, then sat on his favourite chair in the drawing room, absentmindedly stroking one of the Scotties, idly regarding the Spanish cabinet, the Chappell grand piano, the Wilton carpets, and the fine antiques, all the beautiful possessions he and Heather had acquired from the money he had earned over the years. How could they afford to go on living like this now his career was on the wane?

He was surprised to see Heather emerge in her low-cut red evening gown – always his favourite – with the diamond necklace he had given her for her last birthday gleaming at her throat.

“‘You take my breath away Heather,” he remarked with a gentle smile. “I didn’t know you were going out this evening.”

“I’m going out with you to your concert,” she replied. “It’s a long time since I heard you singing in public. You‘re still the greatest tenor in Britain whether you have that contract or not.”

He knew she was being kind but he was comforted by her presence on the trip to Watford. The concert was sold out, and a group of ardent fans was waiting for him at the stage door of The Playhouse.

Thousands admired his voice, but this small coterie of fans bought all his records, collected his press cuttings, and travelled to all his concerts up and down the UK if they had money to spare. Over the years, he had developed a personal relationship with them and he and Heather sent them Christmas cards, and sometimes complimentary tickets for one or other of his appearances.

Singing had certainly given him an insight into vagaries of human nature he would never have experienced had he been voiceless and working in the family butchery alongside his two older brothers.

Heather watched him brace his shoulders to face his fans with good grace. Although it was the last thing she felt like doing, she smiled as she wafted quickly through the crowd, knowing it was Malcolm they really wanted to talk to.

“Hello, Geraldine. Don’t tell me you’ve come all the way from Manchester just for tonight. David and Veronica – lovely to see you again.”

Malcolm was always genuinely pleased to greet his loyal fans. Tonight especially it cheered him to see their friendly faces glowing with pleasure at his kind words.

“We couldn’t believe that review in the Gramophone,” said Veronica. “I’ve already written to the editor to say that it was a disgraceful criticism. The reviewer ought to offer you an apology.”

“The review? You mean the review of my LP record?”

For the second time that day, Malcolm’s face lost all its colour.

“Was it very bad?” he asked in a small voice.

“Quite uncalled for,” said David, as the others nodded their agreement. “But don’t you worry, Malcolm. We think you’re still the greatest tenor in the world – never mind just in Britain. We’ll all be buying your LP.”

Malcolm tried to smile.

“I hope you enjoy the concert. I’ll probably see you all afterwards. God bless you for being here tonight.”

He went to the Green Room to warm up with George Manning, who had played for him at BRG earlier that day, and had booked him for tonight’s concert.

“I’m so sorry about the contract, Malcolm,” George said. “Frank was distressed when you left so suddenly.”

“Not half as distressed as me!” replied Malcolm dryly.

He caught a glimpse of his beloved Heather sitting in the prompt corner and raised his hand to her. Even without the record contract and news of the bad notice in the Gramophone, he was still the luckiest man alive to have such a beautiful and loving wife. As he walked onto the stage, the audience rose to cheer him before he had even sung a note. He was engulfed in the warmth of their sincere affection.

He raised his hand and immediately they sat down, waiting in silence for the recital to begin. George began playing the opening bars of Schubert’s To Music. Malcolm’s earlier ordeal had put him on his mettle. He sang better than he had ever done before. They were stamping for him at the end and he sang several encores, finishing with I leave my heart in an English Garden from Dear Miss Phoebe by Harry Parr-Davies. The show had opened at the Phoenix Theatre the year before and was still running.

Although his mood had lifted, he dreaded the mayoral reception, but it was in his honour so it would be bad manners to disappoint the guests and go straight home as he longed to do.

When he and Heather entered the reception, the guests applauded, although most of them were not music lovers, but the well-heeled influential great and good of Watford. To Malcolm’s surprise, he saw George, already settled with his whisky and soda, chatting easily to Frank and Lucille Downey. He thought he had seen the last of Frank for a long time and he certainly didn’t want any more of him now, but Frank was bounding towards him relentlessly.

“I’ve never heard you sing better,” he told Malcolm effusively.

“So why is my contract not being renewed?” enquired Malcolm.

“We may still be able to offer you a bit of work on an ad hoc basis here and there, with all the music we’ll be putting on to the LP format. That’s what I had wanted to tell you before you rushed off this morning. After all, aren’t you one of the most versatile tenors in Britain today?”

Frank Downey was relieved to see that Malcolm was slightly mollified by his remark, although he said nothing.

Heather and Malcolm left the party early. He longed to shut out the world of fans, admirers, detractors, and record producers, without giving a thought to singing. He wanted to relax with Heather in his arms.

When they were in bed, Heather said, “I have some news, but it might not be as welcome as I thought it would be when I saw Dr Urquhart.”

“You’re not ill?”

Malcolm realised that the cancelled record contract was nothing in the scheme of things compared with his darling Heather being in poor health. Now that he looked at her properly, she did look rather pale and drawn.

“I’m pregnant, darling. I have been for a few months but I thought I was starting the menopause early so I didn’t say anything until I saw Dr Urquhart today. He seems to think I’m over the danger period, but I’ll have to take things very easy for the rest of my pregnancy.”

Malcolm took Heather gently in his arms and kissed her, all thoughts of the lost record contract and the bad review forgotten.

“I’ll make sure you take things easy, darling,” he said. “The contract pales into insignificance when I think of holding our baby in my arms at last.”

It had been a funny old day with highs and lows as wide as his extraordinary singing range. He was glad it had ended on a high, he thought, as he lay close to Heather.

Towards the end of 1951, he signed a lucrative record contract with Mellotone Records. A week later Heather gave birth to their adorable little boy.

Fiona Compton. Updated 8 September 2021.

ON WINGS OF SONG – REFLECTIONS OF A REJECTED POP IDOL by FIONA COMPTON.

Sally Roos waited restlessly in the line of contestants auditioning for the pop singing competition. Only ten more to go and then it would be her turn. Nobody had made it to the next round for quite a while. She watched the live broadcast of proceedings in the audition room on the giant TV screen: the judges were not at all forthcoming, sometimes even downright rude, making no allowances for the nerves of the contestants. Many were told bluntly, ‘You can’t sing. Promise me you’ll never sing again.’

Sally could see that in many cases they were right, but it was mean to deflate people’s egos so completely. Singing is such an integral part of a person, and it takes courage to sing in public, only to be callously ridiculed. Each failed contestants did a doleful walk of shame, trailing past the waiting hopefuls to the exit door. Many were tearful at having their dreams and self-confidence shattered so abruptly; others were angry and voluble, promising to show everyone that they could still be stars regardless of the flash opinions of the four powers-that-be. But most of the rejects were simply numb from their ordeal, longing for the comfort of home where they could pretend the lowering experience was a nightmare that had never happened. After the excitement of preparing for the competition, the only thing they had to look forward to was that their failed audition would be repeated over and over on TV, reinforcing the debilitating experience in their own mind and the collective mind of the nation.

Worse still, for those still waiting, were the whoops of delight from the few who were given the nod to the following round. Everyone cheered the victors with seemingly unselfish delight, although each one knew that another person through meant there was one less place for them.

Despite the disastrous audition process, most of the crowd were still full of hope. Sally was amazed at the confidence of some of the contestants, who thought nothing of singing in front of everyone at the top of their voices. She wondered whether being a complete extrovert was a prerequisite to becoming a pop star. Some could sing, but many others, equally confident, should never have been there in the first place.

Sally was wearing jeans and an emerald green top to match her eyes and complement her auburn hair and translucent skin but she realised that her mode of dress was conservative in comparison with the girls with pink hair, bare midriffs, low necklines and tight jeans or micro mini-skirts.

Sally had been studying piano since she was small, and classical singing for the last three years. Although Sally loved classical singing and had a pleasing soprano voice, she enjoyed pop music and could party with the best of them. She was doing music for matric, and only three weeks ago she had sung the final ABRSM singing exam. Her teacher, Barbara Boucher had been pleased with her performance and thought she would do well. But her schoolmates egged her on to sing the pop songs of the day. She knew she could do passable imitations of Celine Dion, Mariah Carey, Cher or Britney Spears, in voices quite distant from her own natural soprano. They all thought she was great and encouraged her to enter the pop competition.

She had decided to sing Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’, which had certainly been a popular song in its day, and Charlotte Church had sung it in the film she had made recently. It had jazzy rhythms and she could use her own voice rather than do an imitation of a pop star.

On one side of her was a confident girl with synthetic red hair, dangly earrings, and full stage make-up, her skimpy sequined top and a pink mini skirt barely covering her neat behind. Her shapely legs were clad in fishnet tights and she was frozen on this cold morning. But her spirits were warm and hopeful.

‘I’m ready for this,’ Lauren told Sally, as she rubbed her cold hands together. ‘It’s been my dream since I was a little girl to be a pop diva. I was born to be the new pop idol of South Africa. After that I’ll take on the world.’

Sally was impressed at her new pal’s supreme confidence. She wished she felt as positive about her own pop singing ability, but she knew she was a bit of a sham. How could a classical singer expect to become a pop star overnight? She wasn’t even sure she wanted to be one. She was certainly not as hungry for such a title as she was meant to be.

The boy on her other side was wearing a bright orange woolly hat. Unlike Lauren, he was nervous and twitchy. Periodically he had been up and down to visit the gents, which was no wonder, as apart from his nerves playing havoc with his bladder, he was drinking copious amounts of water from a large bottle.
‘My mouth is so dry,’ Sizwe told her. I’ll never be able to sing properly when I get in there. The judges don’t seem to know what they want. I’ve only just started with a voice trainer. She says I just have to get my voice more mature, and then there’ll be no stopping me. But I’ve only had lessons for three months. Maybe I’m not ready for this. Who’s your voice trainer?’

Voice trainer reminded Sally of a dog trainer. She had a singing teacher, which she presumed was the same thing as a voice trainer, just in different parlance.

Suddenly it was her turn. Lauren had shrieked her way through a Whitney Houston hit with the appropriate accent and ornamentation. She had been suitably berated for imitating her idol and emerged deflated from the audition room, leaving without a word.

Sally wondered what she herself was doing here. At least at the classical music exam she had been well prepared and confident that the examiner, a music professor from the Royal Academy, worked according to the rigorous standards set by the examining board. He had been polite and had not made her aware of his feelings – approving or disapproving – of her singing. The examiner would have written his report with due care. Whatever she achieved in that exam would be her true worth as a singer and musician.

This competition was simply entertainment for a TV audience of couch potatoes, slopping on their sofas, swilling beer, smoking fags, and munching chips and chocolates. A singing competition made a change from Rugby, ‘Big Brother’ or ‘The Weakest Link’. The potatoes could mock the bad singers and laugh at the antics of the cocky know-it-all judges, who were playing up to the cameras by being rude and dismissive to contestants. Even at a cut throat theatrical audition, the director was never rude to those auditioning.

It was too late to leave. She had been called to say a few words to the energetic presenter before her ordeal. Now she was going into this audition room where fairness and politeness were not to be expected from those in authority. Some good singers had been rejected, while poor ones had gone through to the next round. Sally did not rate her chances highly.

‘Just enjoy yourself,’ said the hearty presenter. ‘Show them what you can do, girl!’

Sally walked into the vast audition room, feeling cold, and nervous despite herself. After the preliminaries, she launched into ‘Summertime’. She had more or less found the right key for her unaccompanied performance. Eventually she was aware of a peremptory hand waving to her to stop in the middle of a phrase.

‘You have a good voice,’ admitted the female judge grudgingly. ‘You can sing.’

She was relieved to hear that much.

‘But you’re too operatic,’ said the next one. ‘And that’s not a pop song. Maybe you could make it in musicals, but not pop.’

‘You sing too high,’ said the third judge. ‘You’re not a pop singer. You should stick to opera.’

‘It’s a ‘no’,’ growled the chief judge, yawning and bored.

Sally felt quite dispirited to be turned down so uniformly. At least they hadn’t told her to stop singing under any circumstances. In her case, the judges were right. She wasn’t a pop singer. She didn’t long to be the second Madonna. She had only entered the competition because her mates had persuaded her to do so. Classical singing was far more satisfying and challenging, and what she had been trained to do. She would stick to it in future.

As she gathered up her belongings, she could see Sizwe on the TV screen, adopting a pseudo-confident stance to face the judges, still clutching his water bottle. She wondered what he would do with it while he was singing. Perhaps he would pretend it was a microphone, or the object of his serenade.

They wasted no time with him. He managed to stumble through a few lines of his song. She could hear the judges’ belligerent voices following her as she did the walk of shame.

‘Why are you wasting our time?’ the cocky young judge asked indignantly. ‘You can’t believe you can sing?’

‘And why do you sing in that false accent when you’re a home boy from Soweto, Bru?’ asked another.

‘Don’t even sing in the shower,’ said the third.

‘It’s a no,’ the other mumbled, making no attempt to hide his giggles at the boy’s egregious performance.

Sally was glad she didn’t have to see the crushed expression on Sizwe’s face when he emerged from the audition room. Her boyfriend, Pierre, squeezed her hand sympathetically and led her to his waiting car.

‘The judges don’t know what they’re talking about, Sally. You were the best singer there!’

‘But not a pop singer. They’re right about that.’

One look at her pale tired face told her parents that she hadn’t made it through to the next round. Her mother made everyone a strong cup of tea and brought out her special homemade ginger bread, still warm from the oven. No doubt, she had made it as a treat to celebrate if Sally had gone through to the second round. Now it was comfort food, complete with melting butter.

‘The results from the Board arrived,’ said Mrs Roos casually. ‘Can you face them after that awful audition? I’ll save them till tomorrow if you like.’

‘No, Mum. Where’s the envelope?’

Some colour reappeared in Sally’s face. If she was a flop as a pop singer, perhaps she had fared better in the classical singing exam. She opened the envelope and glanced through the examiner’s report, looking for the all-important mark.

‘It’s Honours!’ she cried. ‘I’ve never had such a high mark for an exam before. At least I’ve managed to do something right.’

Enclosed with the results was a letter asking her to sing at a gala concert for high scorers. There was even a chance she might qualify for a scholarship to one of the British music academies as a result of her high marks.

Pop singing was forgotten as she phoned her singing teacher excitedly to tell her the good news. They planned some extra lessons to prepare for the forthcoming Concert at the Linder Auditorium, where there would be no electronic instruments, no microphones or screaming teenagers in sight, just the grand piano, the accompanist, the singer and a quiet appreciative audience.

Sally would not forget this harrowing day in a hurry. Her musical journey might lead her along a different path to the one followed by pop singers. She might not be destined to be a pop idol, but singing would still play a large part in her life. She could not wait to begin.

Fiona Compton. 8 September 2021.

FIONA COMPTON’S FICTION BOOKS

My name is Jean Collen and I have published a number of non-fiction books about the famous British duettists, Webster Booth and Anne Ziegler, at: websterboothanneziegler.wordpress.com

Webster Booth and Anne Ziegler.

Fiona Compton is the pen name I use for my fiction writing. I have published 6 fiction books on Lulu.com. All these books – paperbacks and e-books – may be seen at: https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/fiona_compton

After I finished the fourth volume of these books I was put off by a remark made by a friend from completing the last volume. Sadly, I doubt whether I will ever complete it now.

Fiona Compton – Fiction.

My first novel was I Can’t Forget You, written in 1977 and revised and published in 2010.

Apr 16, 2015 This review was included by PEARL HARRIS when the book was first published on Aug 21, 2010

Once I started reading Fiona Compton’s romantic novel, I could not put it down. I soon became involved in the emotions and events of the main characters’ lives. Derek Bailey attracts females and trouble wherever he goes, due to his charisma and talent. How the women in his life deal with subsequent events must touch a chord in the heart of every female reader who has ever fallen prey to the charms of a philanderer. The writing style is flowing and the dialogue authentic. Place descriptions set the scene firmly in 20th-century Britain. I particularly enjoyed the Scottish dialect (the author having been born in Scotland, this too is genuine!)and the descriptions of daily life in London. This is no run-of-the-mill romantic novel. Due to the author’s musical knowledge, “I can’t forget you” has a depth and authenticity lacking in most novels of this genre. You will not want to put this book down before discovering what the final outcome of the hero’s romantic entanglements is to be.

At the same time, I published a collection of short stories – The Song is Ended and Other Stories. 

I am most grateful to mjpotenza and Pearl Harris for taking the trouble to write reviews for various books.

Here are two reviews:

By mjpotenza
Any fan of short stories will enjoy this selection of entertaining tales by Fiona Compton. The author presents women’s viewpoints, emotions, and experiences accurately and uniquely. The women characters are interesting, complex, and sympathetic (the men are mostly cads). One wonders how much is autobiographical. The writing is descriptive and precise. The style flows nicely, making for easy and pleasant reading. The Wedding Singer,Miss Stratton Disappears, and The Sunset Gleams, to name a few, all have the right combination of humour and sadness. In short, these well written stories are very enjoyable.

By Pearl Harris
10-Sep-2011
Each short story in this collection is refreshingly different and will touch a chord in the heart of most female readers. All the characters are masterfully and realistically portrayed. Many of the incidents depicted are those which affect all women at various times in their lives and with which the reader can readily empathise. Some bring a chuckle and a feeling of optimism, others a feeling of sadness. All left a lasting impression on me. Fiona Compton’s voice is a charming mix, evidence of her Scottish, South African and musical roots. These stories particularly appeal to me as an expatriate South African, as many of them richly evoke the South African lifestyle. However, all are timeless in their own right and certainly worth reading by both women and men, whatever their nationality.

I have published four novels in the Malcolm Craig series.The first novel in the series is called Just the Echo of a Sigh
It was published at the end of 2013.

Oct 12, 2015
I thoroughly enjoyed “Just the Echo of a Sigh” – the first in a series about famous English tenor, Malcolm Craig, and his complicated love life. Obviously written by an author with extensive musical knowledge, the novel transports the reader back to the era in Britain before World War II, with rare glimpses into the lifestyle of those times. Ms. Compton has a rare gift – she brings her characters to life through their dialogue and her fine description. I look forward to reading many more of her novels.

The second novel in this series about Malcolm Craig is called Faint Harmony

Oct 14, 2015 Having thoroughly enjoyed “Just the Echo of a Sigh” – the first in this series by Fiona Compton – I could not put “Faint Harmony” down until the last line. Ms. Compton’s characters are living and breathing – and her knowledge of the musical scene in Britain after the beginning of World War 2 lends authenticity to the description of her characters and of those times. I can highly recommend all 3 novels in this series to readers, with interests especially in music, Britain, South Africa and the not always idyllic lives of the rich and famous.by Pearl Harris

I published my third book in the Malcolm Craig series towards the end of August of 2015. It is called Love Set to Music

Jan 13, 2016
Fiona Compton has pointed out that the novels in the Malcolm Craig series are partly novels with a key and partly biographical/autobiographical novels. She has written these books under a pen name, presumably because she did not want to write the story as rather sensational fact, but preferred to write it as a mixture of fact interspersed with fiction. Possibly she wrote the Malcolm Craig series in this way so that she would not hurt or embarrass family and friends of the protagonists. I found “Love Set to Music” most interesting. I imagine that the character of Kate Kyle is Fiona Compton herself, thinly disguised. Neither Kate Kyle nor Malcolm Craig are covered in glory and some might consider their spring/winter relationship unseemly even over fifty years later. They obviously felt deeply for one another and Malcolm Craig’s wife, Marina Dunbar, was not without blame. I look forward to reading the final book in the series and sincerely hope that it will reach a satisfactory conclusion otherwise the emotion generated by the affair which changed the life of Kate Kyle/Fiona Compton radically without bringing her lasting happiness would have been a meaningless waste of time.
by Jean Collen.

I highly recommend all 3 novels in this series by Fiona Compton. In her easy flowing style, the author draws the reader into the lives of the various characters and the environment in which their destinies cross. I could empathise with the emotions experienced by the vulnerable young Kate and did not stop reading until the last line. I await the 4th novel in this series….. Review by Pearl Harris.

A lovely comment about the Malcolm Craig series from Suzanne West.

This is the fourth and final novel in the Malcolm Craig series. The stormy marriage of Malcolm Craig and his wife, Marina Dunbar eventually reaches the point of no return. They have to decide whether to remain married for the sake of their “sweethearts of song” image in the eyes of the public, or go their separate ways at last. In 1965 Kate Kyle, the young woman who is the object of Malcolm’s attentions, is so distressed and hurt at the course of events that she decides that the only course open to her is to leave the country and try to make a new life for herself in the United Kingdom.

Jan 13, 2016 I read the 4th in this series without being able to stop until the very last line. Fiona Compton traces the thoughts and emotions of her various characters realistically and with special insight. Seeing the story unfold from the different viewpoints makes fascinating reading. I highly recommend this competent novelist and hope to see more of her writing in future. Review by Pearl Harris.

All my books are available in paperback and as ebooks. lulu.com/spotlight/fiona_compton

Fiona Compton

10 September 2021.

Updated 6 January 2024.

NOEL COWARD’S DIARIES – REVIEW

Noel Coward’s Diaries edited by Graham Payn and Sheridan Morley

I have been reading The Noel Coward Diaries edited by Graham Payn and Sheridan Morley  (1982) and am nearly at the end of this large volume of over 650 pages. The diaries extend from 1941 (several years before my birth) to 1969 when Noel Coward was about to be knighted.
Cole Lesley and Noel Coward.

I found this a fascinating book which gave a clear view into Noel Coward’s busy and successful life. I dare say that he might have had a fair inkling that these diaries would be published after his death, but despite this, he did not pull any punches in what he said about people he met;  plays, films, concerts and operas he attended; and books he read.

He was a hard worker. He took roles in films and plays, performed in cabaret, and was always busy writing a new play or novel. He travelled extensively, and although he had many famous friends in theatre and royal circles, his inner circle of intimate friends was small and he remained loyal to them throughout his life – Cole Lesley, Graham Payne and Lorn Lorraine. The last-mentioned was his secretary and manager from 1924 until her death.

By the time his diary reached the nineteen-sixties his health was deteriorating. He was sad that Graham Payn was not making a success of his stage career and wrote a touching entry about Graham on 24 November 1966, “He has a loving and loyal heart and no future anywhere but with me… ”

I saw Noel Coward in his last West End performance in 1966 – Shadows of the Evening and Come into the Garden, Maud at the Queen’s Theatre. His co-stars were Irene Worth and Lilli Palmer. Apparently Irene Worth could do no wrong, while Lilli Palmer presented him with numerous irritating problems during the run of the play. I will always remember seeing a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce arriving at the stage door to fetch Noel Coward after his performance. He waved graciously at the hoi polloi as the car drove off.

Noel Coward died in 1973. On the day of his death, British tenor, Webster Booth was in East London directing The Mikado. He and I were having tea and cream scones at Marina Glen that afternoon and spoke of him.

I recommend this book to anyone interested in the inner workings of the theatre. Noel Coward’s diary is beautifully written and gives fascinating insights into the theatre,  the critics, and the vagaries of a number of famous performers, by a multi-talented performer, writer, and composer who certainly deserved the title of The Master.

Jean Collen 17 January 2019

A VERY PRIVATE EYE: An Autobiography in Diaries and Letters – BARBARA PYM

A Very Private Eye: The Diaries, Letters And Notebooks Of Barbara Pym by Barbara Pym

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I have only recently discovered Barbara Pym’s novels so this book gave me an excellent insight into her life, her work and her friendships. I was very sorry that such an excellent writer should have had such a struggle to have her early novels published in the first place and after a steady acceptance of them in the fifties suddenly had An Unsuitable Attachment rejected by her regular publisher twelve years later. It took many years before she became a published author again although she continued to write her excellent novels in her spare time while working as assistant editor at the International African Institute.

It is very sad that her health deteriorated just at the time when her work was acknowledged by critics so that she only managed to enjoy a few years of the success she should have been enjoying during her entire literary career.

Jean Collen

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AN UNSUITABLE ATTACHMENT – BARBARA PYM

An Unsuitable Attachment by Barbara Pym

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This was the first book by Barbara Pym that I have read. I enjoyed it very much and hope to read more of her novels in future. She wrote this book in 1963 and it was rejected by her publisher after a number of others had been published earlier. Naturally, she was extremely despondent that this book had been rejected.

Perhaps it was rejected because the characters are very reserved, class-conscious, repressed and old-fashioned for the average person living in the early 1960s. They do not take any risks: rock ‘n roll and sexual freedom are certainly not in their ambit.

She has been compared to Jane Austen although I think more happens in Jane Austen’s novels than in Barbara Pym’s. The height of excitement is a communal trip to Rome with a small group of fellow parishioners who are all regular churchgoers at St Basil’s in North-West London. Moments of dry humour give light relief to the tedium of the novel and the banality of the lives of the upper-middle-class, churchgoing characters. Despite its limitations, I enjoyed the book which is beautifully written and look forward to reading more novels by Barbara Pym.

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THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET – HELEN CAREY

The Other Side of the Street by Helen Carey

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It is a long time since I have enjoyed a book so much and the first time I have ever awarded five stars to any book I have read and reviewed on Goodreads The Other Side of the Street. I have read the previous novels in the Lavender Road series and think that this one is even better than the earlier ones. Helen Carey tells a spell-binding tale with the principal inhabitants of Lavender Road in 1944 clearly delineated. I am amazed at the close attention she pays to the timeline of WW2 as she intersperses events, both large and small, with her fascinating story. I unreservedly recommend this book and others in the series.

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