THE RHYTHM OF TIME
Mayfair, December 15, 1762, 8 pm
Percy was destined for greatness. His father was convinced of it—he was a Frobisher, after all. And it was high time for Sir Edward to present his son to the world (well, London’s elite, anyway). He beckoned to the diminutive figure cowering in the front row. “Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, please welcome Handel’s successor…”
Percy shuffled on stage like a reluctant penguin, in his black knee-breeches and white silk stockings. Genteel applause replaced the buzz of tittle-tattle. Glasses were raised in a toast. The air crackled with anticipation … and the penguin stood there, cringing. It was his fourth birthday and his father had decided this evening’s soirée would be a musical rite of passage.
Having paraded Percy like a circus attraction, the Master of Ceremonies introduced the real star of the show. “We are privileged to have another notable offspring with us this evening…”—dramatic pause—“the son of the greatest composer the world has yet witnessed.” Murmurs of approval. “Please show your appreciation for Johann Christian, the London Bach.”
J.C. Bach, eighteenth child of Johann Sebastian, took his seat at the harpsichord. He’d recently moved to London, and Edward was delighted when he agreed to perform at Percy’s birthday soirée. Edward asked J.C. to play his father’s ‘Goldberg Variations’. “It is undoubtedly the most sublime music ever written for the keyboard,” Edward told him. “Your consummate performance would be the perfect present for my son.”
Percy listened, spellbound, to every note—and gosh, what a lot of them there were: twisting, turning, and tumbling over each other. Each note was a friend or an enemy of those around it. They argued with each other, like his parents. What stories they told—such twists and turns. One moment it was “Baa, baa black sheep,” and the next … His head was spinning. Surely Papa didn’t expect him to make music like this?
* * *
An hour later, the tour de force was over and the salon erupted with applause. Edward grabbed Percy and shoved him towards J.C. “Herr Bach, may I present my son.”
“Ach so, the birthday boy. I hope you enjoyed my father’s music.”
Percy stared at his feet.
“Indeed he did, Johann. We are indebted to you for honouring our little soirée with your virtuosity.”
J.C. bowed.
“If I might presume to ask a favour… Would you, perhaps, consider taking Percy as a pupil?”
J.C. frowned. “Well, I’m not sure he is old enough to…”
“We’ve put him down for St Paul’s Cathedral School, but the sooner he gets to grips with the rudiments of composition the better, don’t you think?”
Percy cringed. He was perilously close to soiling his breeches now.
“Of course, I would be delighted to assist with your son’s education,” J.C. was saying, “but it might prove difficult to find time between my other commitments, most of which are, unfortunately, necessary to pay the bills.”
Edward’s lips curled in a wry smile. Negotiations were his forte. “So if we can agree on an appropriate fee, you might—”
“Ah, Mr Bach, there you are.” Lady Frobisher invaded the conversation, annexing it effortlessly. “I trust everything is to your satisfaction? The catering? The harpsichord? It’s the finest available in London, but perhaps inferior to the instruments on the continent?”
Edward sighed. His wife knew nothing about keyboards. Socialising was her forte. “Louisa, my dear, Johann and I were discussing Percy’s education. If you could just allow us a few moments, I’m sure he’d be happy to give you his undivided attention.”
She smiled coyly, as she leant towards J.C. in her low-cut gown.
Edward glared at her. He was all too familiar with that smile. For Louisa, the soirées were opportunities to flirt, gossip, mingle and make mischief. Music bored her, and when she was bored, she drank. Alcohol loosened her acid tongue and sharpened her claws. A scene was looming, but her glass was empty. With a dismissive nod, she swept off in search of a refill and more stimulating company.
Edward turned back to Bach. “So, Johann, you were saying you might accommodate Percy’s lessons in your busy schedule, for an appropriate fee.”
J.C. nodded distractedly, his eyes following Louisa, as she flounced towards another admirer.
Edward shrugged. “Very well. We can discuss this later. Now, let’s have some more music.” He opened his cello case and brought out his Stradivarius. “Please indulge me, as I pick my way through the first of your father’s incomparable cello suites.”
* * *
For Edward, the suites were the sine qua non for his own instrument. He could not imagine a more profoundly moving piece than the Sarabande. Whenever he was troubled, he played it in his head, and now he was eager to share it with his son.
Once again, Bach was no nursery rhyme. As the solemn notes rolled around the salon, each an extension of silence, Percy trembled. These notes were monsters. They crushed him. And the silences were torture. Waiting for the next note was like waiting for a slap from Mama. Couldn’t Papa see he wanted to sing and dance, not…
But no, Edward couldn’t see. He was more concerned about Bach’s son. What would J.C. make of his playing?
In the end, it turned out well enough. A few fluffed notes, the occasional problem with intonation—but that was only to be expected in an amateur performance. He grappled his way through the Gigue, sighed, and looked up. Everyone gazed at J.C., waiting for his verdict, like spectators in a Roman amphitheatre. He nodded, then applauded politely, and the audience joined him.
Edward turned to his son. “So, Percy, what did you make of Johann Sebastian’s masterpiece?”
“Oh papa, it made me dizzy and sad and…” He yawned. It was well past his bedtime, but his father had more music for him—something quite different.
* * *
Anne Meeks closed her eyes, imagined herself on Gowlane strand, and began to sing. The haunting melody of ‘The Galway Shawl’ floated into the room. After ninety minutes of Bach’s complex counterpoint, her untrained, a cappella voice was a revelation. The melody was a pure line, as pure and honest as a child’s drawing—and that’s all there was: melody and emotion. If ever there was an example of less-is-more, this was it.
Percy sucked his thumb and hummed the tune, sotto voce. He’d heard snatches of it before, drifting up from the scullery, like fragments of someone else’s dream. Perhaps Papa would allow him to make music like this?
Sir Edward’s soirées were de rigueur for the staff, and Anne was often asked to sing one of the ballads her grandmother had taught her. She’d left home when the famine struck, and the songs were a lifeline. Her gift for music endeared her to Edward. The word downstairs was he wanted to promote her to housekeeper, but it would require his wife’s approval, and nothing was certain—especially if it involved the capricious Lady Louisa (or “Lady Lust,” as the servants called her).
There was no love lost between the two women. They were the same age, twenty-five, but worlds apart. Anne was sturdy, solid, Celtic, with a hint of the wild Atlantic about her: ginger hair, green eyes, freckles—handsome, rather than a beauty. Louisa was ravishing: luminous skin, Rubenesque curves, seductive eyes; a celebrated socialite and courtier. Wealth, beauty, breeding—she had it all. And yet, whenever Anne sang, it touched a nerve. “I simply cannot fathom why you admire that Paddy peasant,” she complained to Edward. “The slattern should be serving us, not up there singing her potato songs.”
The final poignant cadence of ‘The Galway Shawl’ dissolved in the air, and the salon breathed a collective sigh of appreciation. Percy applauded. Edward applauded. J.C. applauded. Everyone applauded—except Lady Lust. She glared at Anne, muttered a last, bitter insult, and swept out of the room. The night was young, and London full of strapping young men.
* * *
Percy climbed the stairs and crawled into bed, his head throbbing with tunes, rhythms, harmony and discord. So many notes, buzzing around his brain like a swarm of angry bees! He closed his eyes, hummed Anne’s dreamy melody, and imagined himself as a kite, floating with the clouds, drifting away, drifting … A shudder wrenched him back. Papa expects so much. He shuddered again.
Tower Hamlets, East London, Two Centuries Later (1960)
From the moment I began bashing on Aunty Eileen’s upright piano, aged seven, it was clear I was no miracle child. Mum thought I was a prodigy, but I had no idea what I was doing. It would be years before I knew Bach from Bowie. I was just pounding the keys, giddy with the sound and rhythm. I’d hit a tasty discord, stamp on the sustain pedal and let it hang there, like a fart. Then I’d take a deep breath and off I’d go again, hammering away until my fingers were raw.
Sometimes I’d sing along with the hammering—a weird, wobbly wail, swooping around like a theremin, searching for a tune. Dad said it sounded like the racket cats make in the middle of the night, when they’re shagging. Mum would giggle, then tell him off. They’d yell at each other for a while and he’d skedaddle down the pub to listen to some “real music”—skiffle and trad jazz. Once, when Mum was at her Mother’s Union meeting, he sneaked me in and I was blown away by the sheer stomping energy.
Eventually, Aunty Eileen got so fed up with the hammering and wailing she offered to give me lessons. She was the organist at our local church and music was her passion. It turned out I had a half decent voice, when I wasn’t impersonating a theremin. She got me in the choir and I was soon singing solos.
I reduced Mum to tears on Christmas Eve, when I sang the first verse of Silent Night, a cappella. “I reckon our Rob’s just as good as those choirboys on telly,” she told her sister. “Y’know, the midnight mass boys?”
Aunty Eileen frowned. “Well, yes, he sings like an angel, but comparing him to King’s College choir? Hmm…” She tailed off into weird, tuneless humming (which sounded spookily like my weird, wobbly wailing). “Hmm.” The humming stopped dead. “Actually, you know what?” She gave us one of her looks. “Maybe you’re right, Dorothy.”
* * *
A few weeks later, she invited Mum and me round to her place and showed us a glossy brochure for St. Paul’s Cathedral School. “I think Rob should have a go at the audition.”
Mum reminded her we lived in a council flat in Tower Hamlets.
“Yes, I know, Dorothy, but look what it says on the cover: ‘Ordinary boys doing extraordinary things.’ And here…” She pointed at a dog-eared page. “They have scholarships for boys from ‘deprived backgrounds’.”
Mum flicked through the brochure, open-mouthed. It was beyond posh—like somewhere the royals would send their kids. “Do you really think Rob has a chance?”
Aunty Eileen shrugged. “Maybe, with the right coaching.” She winked at me and grinned as I blushed.
Mum put the brochure in her bag. “I’ll show this to Ron.”
As soon as she mentioned Dad, I knew he’d scoff at the idea, especially when he saw the photos of the choirboys in their frilly collars. He was the sort of bloke who made snide comments about men in tights when ballet was on TV, or “fat women with ’orns” if it was opera. But Mum and her sister ganged up and battered him into submission.
The glossy brochure had seduced Mum. She imagined me on the telly, singing a solo at a royal wedding, meeting the queen. I deserved my chance and she deserved her fantasy. Aunty Eileen thought it could be the start of my career as a musician. Dad pooh-poohed that suggestion. “No way. He’s gonna get a proper job. Plumber, maybe.”
In the end he gave in, although, as always, he had to have the last word. “Anyway, I don’t know why we’re gettin’ so het up. He’ll never pass the exam, and even if he did, they’ll never let ’im into a poncey place like that.”
Aunty Eileen rang the school and they sent her an application form. She filled it in, posted it back, and a few weeks later we got a letter with a date for my audition.
* * *
She was a cunning old bird, Aunty Eileen. She did some research down the library and discovered this obscure 18th century composer, who’d been a choirboy at St Paul’s. He was famous in his day, but pretty much forgotten now. Aunty Eileen found a suite of Irish folk songs he’d arranged, and she reckoned his setting of ‘The Galway Shawl’ would suit my voice. The choirmaster, a Mr Chapman, had written an article for a music magazine “eulogising” this composer, as my aunt put it, so he’d be bound to lap it up.
She had me practising that song until I could sing it in my sleep. It wormed its way into my dreams and I was waking up humming it. By the time it came to the audition, I was bloody sick of that stupid tune. But it did the trick.
The aural test was just about okay—ish. I nearly peed myself, but I scraped through. Mr Chapman wasn’t impressed, but when Aunty Eileen launched into the intro to ‘The Galway Shawl’, he looked up, big grin on his face. I sang it pretty well, and by the second verse he was nodding along. At the end, he applauded. I was gobsmacked.
“An inspired choice, Jones,” he said, making a note on his clipboard.
Aunty Eileen winked at me.
“Frobisher has been sadly neglected. His ‘Irish Suite’ is rarely heard these days, but in my humble opinion, it’s a remarkable setting of some lovely melodies.”
Aunty Eileen smiled. “Absolutely. Robert loves this song, don’t you, Rob?”
I nodded, blushed, and stared at the carpet.
“Well, it was refreshing to hear it sung so well.” Mr Chapman smiled at me. “Thank you, Robert. We’ll be in touch.”
St Paul’s Cathedral, Six Months Later (Monday, September 4, 1961, 9:30 a.m.)
“Come along, boys. Do stop dawdling.”
It was my first day at St Paul’s school and Mr Chapman was showing us the cathedral. The click-clack of his walking stick bounced around the vast space. I gazed up at the dome, soaring above us, and for the nth time wondered what I was doing there, an East End kid with these toffs.
“Now for the climax of the tour. Follow me…” He clicked his way down the marble stairs and paused in front of a gnarled old door. “Every year, I take the new boys down to the crypt to visit the shrine of a former pupil. He was a chorister here, nearly two centuries ago—from 1767 to 1771, to be precise.”
The door creaked open like a sound effect from a low-budget horror flick and the choirmaster led us down into the gloom. “He went on to become one of the finest composers this nation has produced.”
At the foot of the stairs a narrow corridor, like an intestine, led us deeper into the cathedral’s bowels. Mr Chapman flicked a switch and a single bare bulb cast ghostly shadows. We crammed into what looked like a storage cupboard. The air smelled as if it had been hanging around since last year’s tour.
“So, here we are.” He grabbed a torch from a hook on the wall and pointed at a small blue plaque. I could just make out the words: Percy Frobisher, the English Mozart. 1758 - 1790.
“Which of you know his compositions?”
There was a smattering of coughs, murmurs, and giggles. I raised a tentative hand.
“Ah yes, Jones, isn’t it? You performed one of his songs for your audition.”
I nodded, blushed, and stared at the plaque. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.
“Anyone else?” Embarrassed silence. “I see. Well, we must rectify that.”
“Please sir…” A mousy boy with wire-framed glasses and a mischievous grin had his hand up. “If he was such a good composer, why isn’t he more famous?”
The choirmaster frowned. “Indeed. Well, for one thing, a tragic accident interrupted his career when he was at the height of his powers.”
I did some mental arithmetic and stuck my hand in the air.
“Yes, Jones?”
“So he was thirty-two when he died, sir?”
“Correct. Who knows what he might have achieved if he hadn’t been so cruelly cut down…” Mr Chapman paused for a beat, but there was no reaction. He shrugged. “Some may accuse me of being a tad biased…” Another pause, nothing, shrug. “But in my humble opinion, Frobisher has been grossly neglected. I have made it my mission to remedy that.” He lifted his chin and gazed at us. “In four years’ time—on the eleventh of September 1965, to be precise, it will be the 175th anniversary of his death.”
How weird, I thought. That’s my birthday.
“I’m hoping to persuade the powers-that-be to commemorate it with a gala performance of his incomparable Requiem, in the cathedral.”
I’ll be twelve.
“You boys will be at your peak as choristers, and this special concert will mark the culmination of your time here.” He turned and beckoned to us. “Right, time for choir practice. We have a mountain to climb before you’re ready for the Frobisher Requiem.”
The theme from ‘The Twilight Zone’ played in my head, as I joined the crocodile snaking back through the gloom. Yeah, it’s really spooky how me and this Percy bloke share that day.
