Choral Evenings Pt 01

Chapter 1

An antagonistically expensive divorce, which had ended fifteen years of a childless and increasingly emotionless marriage - and which had then seen a good half of my hard-earned assets paid off to my wife, and another chunk to the assorted lawyers - had left me in a very poor position when starting to think about where and how I should begin to make a new life for myself.

Clearly a house of the proportions we had shared in a reasonably desirable suburb was right out of the question. Then those I viewed in the less affluent sections of town all seemed to have major flaws in either their location, design, or value - and it was with ever decreasing confidence that I extended my search for options even wider. But then, quite by chance, I happened to pass through a portion of the furthest outer reaches of the ever-expanding city, which was in the process of converting what had once been market gardens, into rather tackily built housing developments.

Obviously one such house was definitely not for me! But, on the outskirts of what had once been the actual village centre, I saw a charming, if run-down and weather-beaten stone cottage.

In addition to farming crops for the then nearby city, the village had also been the centre for the quarrying and distribution of much of the sandstone that had originally built it, and most of the village's civic buildings were still built from that stone - as was what I quickly began to think of as 'my cottage'.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that, as there was quick and easy access to the Freeway, my drive to work would be not much more than twenty or so minutes longer than it had previously been - so I bought the place. Then, with the help of some of the still available local tradesmen, began the necessarily extensive renovations and internal modernisations - an outdoor, and extremely uncomfortable, 'bucket' toilet in something resembling a small garden shed may be considered either 'heritage' or 'quaint', but...

Having lived there for a year or so I had not only made the cottage an extremely comfortable place in which to live, but had begun the process of getting to know my neighbours and at least a few of the more frequently seen village residents, many of whom were, like myself, fairly new arrivals. But, never having been a particularly gregarious character, the actual friendships I had begun to tentatively form, were few in number, and none of those that were in fact female, were also what one might consider potentially beddable ones.

As a result of which, my sex-life, which had grown both increasingly infrequent and inadequate during the failing years of my marriage, actually became non-existent...

So when I went to do a little shopping in the village on a Saturday morning I was not expecting to experience too much excitement - and didn't. However, before heading home I decided to treat myself to a decent cup of coffee and picked up a copy of the local newspaper as something to read whilst sipping it. Apart from those occasions when I was looking for a particular type of tradesman I normally barely scanned it, but with a little more time on my hands I flicked the pages rather more slowly than usual - and if I hadn't done so I might have missed the one thing that could very well end up completely changing my life!

It wasn't a particularly large or prominent advertisement; in fact it was more of a simple announcement than the usual commercial entreaty - an announcement of the programme of the local music society. And, although music has always been one of my favourite relaxations, it was only the name of one particular piece that for some strange reason actually caught my eye.

Stanford's

'Te Deum'

had been an anthem I had sung several times in the days when I had been a boy-chorister, and it had made such an impression on me that I not only still classified it as one of my favourite pieces of religious music, but even though it had been many, many years since I had last heard it, I found I could in fact still hum most of it.

So from there, to buying a ticket for the performance was no more than one quick phone call once I was home again, and in the intervening days I found I was beginning to quite look forward to making my first real foray out into the village's social life.

On the night of the concert I got home in time to grab a bite to eat, then showered and changed before strolling leisurely down to the village hall, which, much to my surprise, had already been filling quite rapidly. In fact so much so that as I wanted to be reasonably close to the source of the sound, I found I was forced to find a seat well over to one side.

The opening was made by a purely male voice choir, which, for a local and purely amateur grouping, proved to be remarkably good. That was followed by several soloists; young people either in their last year at school, or in their first year at the city's Music Academy, and at least a couple of them showed truly amazing talent and potential. Following them, and taking us through to the interval, a full chorus of both men and women treated us to a combination of; popular medleys, one classic opera piece and a performance of what was obviously a much more contemporary piece.

But, good as they undoubtedly were, for once my attention was not so much on the sound, but on one particular woman who was contributing to it.

I really have no idea as to exactly why she first attracted my attention, my preference had always been for short, blue-eyed blondes and this woman was the precise opposite; tall, brown, almost black hair which was twisted up at the back of her head, a smoothly pale skin colouring, and large - even when seen from as far away as I was - luminescently brown eyes.

But attracted I certainly was - and powerfully so. It was as though there had sprung up between us a link, a chord, a tightly stranded thread, a link that triggered - at least at my end it did - thoughts of slipping my arm around her, pulling her towards me, using the other hand to ease her face closer, close enough to kiss.

It was nothing but sheer lunacy! There I was, sitting in a partially darkened hall, just one amongst an audience of around two hundred people, imagining I had somehow made connection with a woman I had never seen before - and imagining her allowing me to begin to make love to her... But that's exactly what was going, all too uncomfortably vividly, through my suddenly totally bewitched and absolutely besotted mind.

When the interval came I hurried out to the foyer, hoping against hope that she too might appear there - perhaps to greet some friends, but hopefully

not

family! But I was to be disappointed; although the youngsters did come through to receive congratulatory hugs from justifiably proudly adoring relatives, not one of the choristers did. So I had to make do with slipping back into my fantasy mode during the time that the choir appeared back on stage - and all through their time there my eyes never once strayed from her, I was fixated, almost obsessively hooked on just the sight of her.

Other than the general shape of her mature - but certainly

not

matronly - figure, the only other thing I could distinctly notice about her, was the large, dark-amber coloured ring she wore on her left hand. And as it was large enough to disguise any wedding ring that she might be wearing behind it, I had no way of knowing whether or not she was married.

Of course my thoughts and purely masculine reactions during the second half of the performance were far, far stronger than those I had experienced previously.

Thoughts of what feminine delights I would find if I slowly unbuttoned that crisply white, high-buttoned blouse, unfastened that snugly form-fitting black skirt, then gently eased them both away from her.

Thoughts as to what style and colour of underwear that would reveal to me. Thoughts of seeing even more of that creamily ivory skin, the lushly womanly curves and creases, the dimples, the folds - and perhaps even the most deeply hidden places that were yet to be explored.

Thoughts as to exactly what sort of madness had taken hold of me...

But then, from time to time, her eyes seemed to glance across in my direction, briefly locking with mine, giving rise to the idea that perhaps they might be registering something of the feelings I was sending out towards her...

I knew that such imaginings were no more than wishful thinking, but even the recognition of that could not stop me from hoping that they might in fact somehow be realised. Hoping that she might see this one face from amongst the darkly blurring crowd of the audience, see the longing to know her that was reflected there, see the emotional turmoil that her mere presence had produced in the man whose face that was.

So I spent all of the second half of the performance deeply locked within my own inner turmoil - and in trying to think of ways in which I might get to meet this overwhelmingly bewitching creature.

Then, even though I hung about, probably almost suspiciously, I didn't catch even a glimpse of her at the end of the performance, so finally, deciding she had somehow slipped out through an alternate exit, I was about to glumly make my way back home again, when I saw on a table set up near the doorway, leaflets that called for new applicants from people interested in joining or assisting in the organisation of further activities of the choir.

I grabbed one, then headed home with more than just a faint trace of a spring in my step - and it was only right then that I realised that I had been concentrating so hard on watching that utterly mesmerising woman that I had failed to register the choir's singing of the piece that had originally drawn me there - the

'Te Deum'

!

Chapter 2

After a phone call confirmed that I would indeed be welcome to join the audition session set for a week or so's time, I began doing a little almost totally forgotten singing practice, in the shower, and soon found at least a few of my earlier skills returning, and although I knew that my inability to sight-read music might be a drawback, I began to look forward to the audition.

It turned out that, like many local choir groups, this one was so desperately short of male voices that I was welcomed with almost open arms, and once the formidable choir-mistress heard my voice and found I could not only hold and carry a tune but hit all the notes almost perfectly, she was happy to overlook my sight-reading deficiency. So, within an hour or so I was signed up as their new member and I looked forward to the first practice, when of course I expected to see in close-up the gorgeous woman who had sparked this whole, in some ways quite ridiculous, business.

My introduction to fellow choir members left me with a confusing array of names and unrelated faces, all except that one of course - Bethany, but

Mrs

. Bethany Trumbell. However, my initial disappointment was allayed somewhat later when after a close inspection of her ring finger confirmed that she actually wore nothing but that large dress-ring - and some discreet probing of another chorister, confirmed that she was actually a divorcee. I also found out that she was the Chief Librarian at our local facility, and that not only did she have responsibility for the management of that, but also of the library-bus that provided a mobile service to a number of outlying communities within the general district.

My first evening went rather well but after an equally enjoyable opening to the second, I discovered that the new piece - a choral arrangement of something by the French modernistic composer, Poulenc - we were to learn was a contemporary one. Now with the more traditional pieces I had been having little trouble in slipping into the appropriate harmonies, but in this one - where I could find no key-notes to guide me - I was frankly totally lost. The choir-mistress quickly recognised my inadequacies and called a halt to the singing, and after turning to Bethany and saying - 'Would you mind helping Mark with this?' and receiving a nodding reply - she turned to me.

'Bethany takes young people for singing and piano lessons, and I'm sure that a few sessions with her would help you find your path through this piece Mark. Would you mind availing yourself of her assistance?'

Well, I just couldn't believe my luck! Not only was I to be helped with what was proving to be my Achilles' heel, but my helper was to be the very woman I had joined the choir in the hope of getting close to.

Bethany and I quickly made arrangements for me to call at her house - which turned out to be no more than five minutes walk from my own - the following evening and once home again I had to keep pinching myself to reassure me that I wasn't actually dreaming.

Bethany's place was a good deal more imposing than my own little cottage, but had obviously been built during the same period; a double fronted, two-storied stone house, with neatly tended front garden and several interesting statues and appropriate garden ornaments adding to its overall grand, but still rustic charm.

She greeted me warmly, taking me down the central hall-way, pausing to poke her head around a door on one side, and saying. 'I have Mark Dawson here for a little singing practice, so I'll close the door so we do not disturb you.' - then leading me into a room on the other side.

'My two sons, they're fifteen year old twins, are doing their school studies in there, but with both doors closed we won't disturb them too much.' she explained as she closed what I saw was a heavily felted door and then pulled across an equally heavy, rather old-fashioned velvet curtain. 'There, that should quieten things a bit.' she added as she adjusted the drapes. 'Now, let's see what we can do to help you with this wretched piece - I think it's hateful, but Marjorie does like to include the odd contemporary piece in our overall repertoire.'

It was soon obvious that she was both a skilled pianist and an excellent voice coach, and having guided me through the cue notes that were all but hidden within the other voice parts, she soon had me singing mine much more comfortably. 'You have a very pleasant voice Mark, have you done a good deal of singing?' she asked when she returned from making cups of coffee for us while we took a short break.

'Not since I was a youngster Bethany, no. Other than the usual bathroom arias.' I added with a rather shamefaced grin.

'Well that's a pity. So what made you decide to join our little group?'

'I moved here about a year ago now, and have been busy with renovations and suchlike until recently. But I have always been a great lover of music of all sorts and when I saw the advert in the paper - and especially that you were performing the Stanford piece, well I just had to come along.'

'Do I presume you sang the

'Te Deum'

as a boy-soprano?'

'Yes, but I've always loved it.'

'So, what did you think of our rendition?'

She had me on the spot there. I couldn't say that I had been so mesmerised, so absorbed in the sight of her that I hadn't even registered the fact that they were singing the very piece that had drawn me there in the first place. So I mumbled something that seemed appropriately complimentary, and took a hasty sip of the coffee.

But even if I hadn't been caught out in that way, the way I was feeling after being so close to her for not much more than half an hour, had left me flustering, and speaking more like an infatuatedly blundering young teen-ager than a mature, mid-life man.

From my seat in the hall, she had looked gorgeous - not glossy-magazine, sexily beautiful - but even from that distance I felt she was somehow exuding a much deeper, perhaps almost primal, feminine appeal. And standing right behind her, looking down at her; at her hair, her neck, shoulders, the way the swell of her breasts tautened the fabric of her blouse, at her hands as they flowed smoothly and skilfully along the length of the keyboard - I was entranced, spellbound, totally captivated.

So it's not too surprising that my half of the conversation with her must have seemed far less than brilliant. From time to time I noticed a brief flicker of a half smile twitch the corners of her mouth, but other than that, she gave no overt signal that my flummoxed exchange was anything out of the ordinary. So, when after another half hour or so of practice had passed by, and she asked if I would like to come again, the following week, I stammered, far too enthusiastically - 'Yes, oh yes please!'

As a result of her coaching my contribution to the next choir practice was a significant improvement on the first - and Marjorie made a point of saying so, adding that Bethany had obviously done her usual excellent job on me.

I just wished I'd had the nerve to reply that she didn't know the half of it!

My second lesson with Bethany started in much the same way that the first had; first a short period of voice-warming exercises, then a start on the second section of the new piece we had to learn. Again I found she had a way of pin-pointing the critical key-notes for me to tune my voice to, and that made the harmonising process so much easier for me. So we were making very good progress, when I noticed something that would, in retrospect, prove to be the trigger that would begin everything that eventually followed.

Bethany had continued to wear her hair coiled and secured behind her head; using a large, multi-tined clip to hold it in place - but then I suddenly noticed that one small , wayward tendril of it had become misplaced, then drifted down and across the back of her neck. My action was totally involuntary, if it hadn't been I would have stayed my hand, not daring to reach out and touch her in such an unasked for and perhaps intimate, way.

But my hand moved of its own - or perhaps responding to my deeply sub-conscious command - and touched it; gently, then slowly and perhaps almost lovingly, moved it to one side.

Her hands stopped in mid-bar, she turned, looked up at me - was it quizzically, or femininely knowingly? I couldn't tell.

'Sorry!' I mumbled. 'It's just that a strand of your hair slipped out, I thought it might be tickling you, distracting you, you know...' I added in desperate confusion - still able to feel the tingling in my finger-tips from where they had briefly but wonderfully, actually touched her!

'Thank you Mark. My neck is quite sensitive, so it well could have done. That was thoughtful of you.' But then she added - 'And you do have a very gentle touch, I mean for a man that is.'

Hoping to lighten what I felt was a suddenly rather tense moment, like a fool I said. 'You mean you prefer to be touched by a woman?'

She relieved my clumsy ineptitude by turning and quickly replying. 'Not usually, no! I definitely much prefer a man's touch - but that's not to say there haven't been other times.'

I'm not quite sure where the conversation might have gone from that point on - but just then we heard the sound of a door slamming, loudly, then the low thump, thump of heavy footsteps receding, angrily, down the hallway.

"Oh it sounds as though John has got up Jason's nose again, I'd better go and do my peace-maker thing. Then while I'm out there I'll take the opportunity to make us some coffee so we can take a short break.

I had been so caught up in the process of learning my part of the music, and of literally breathing in the same air as Bethany, that I had totally forgotten the two young teen-agers in the other room. But the interruption brought the reality of her day-to-day life suddenly home to me - and perhaps actually started the thinking process that I would later develop much more assiduously.

Chapter 3