The Letter
“ . . . a letter I have written . . .”
Gal.6.11
Dr Alan Rees-Jones had composed two major musical works while living in the secluded
beach cottage at Calgati, overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
“Canticles for a King” was a gloriously extravagant work, based on texts from the
Song of Solomon. Prompted by a suggestion from his friend Mrs Wheatstone, the work,
originally conceived as a wedding anthem, had grown to a full-scale composition for
choir and orchestra. Some critics had condemned the work for its exuberant melodies
and jazzy syncopation, but it had proved hugely popular with audiences.
His earlier work, a String Quartet in D, was entirely different in mood. Taut, inwardly
focused, at times anguished and dissonant, it seemed to pose questions for which
there could be no answer. It would never be a comfortable work to listen to, yet
it pleased those critics who disliked the “Canticles”.
Since moving to the cottage a year ago, Dr Rees-Jones had settled into a daily routine.
From morning till early afternoon, he would work at his composition, alternating
between a computer keyboard and his piano. He would take a light lunch then a two-
to three-hour walk along the beach, followed by a swim. He would then read for an
hour or two, before preparing his evening meal.
In the evenings, as the sky flamed orange, red and purple over the ocean, he would
sit with a glass of wine on the verandah and listen to gramophone records or compact
discs from his extensive collection. Sometimes to music for the cello: the great
concertos of Schumann, Lalo, Dvorak, Tchaikovsky, Elgar, Barber, Shostakovich, Bloch.
Sometimes — but less often now — to a tape recording of the Dvorak concerto by a
young French cellist, Cécile Maraud.
It was a live concert recording. The French provincial orchestra was not in the top
flight of orchestras, and the recording quality was far from perfect. Cécile’s
technique was not always flawless. But there was an ardour and expressiveness in
her playing, especially in the concerto’s great lyric passages, that still brought
a lump to his throat whenever he heard it. The audience’s response had been ecstatic:
if they could, they would have kept her on stage all night playing encores.
Cécile Maraud was twenty-one years old and lived for music. She had died in
a hit-and-run car accident, victim of a drunken teenage driver. Cécile Maraud
had been Dr Rees-Jones’s fiancée.
He had begun the Quartet in D in the weeks following her death. It had cost him months
of emotional agony to finish the work, but he had then been able to move on. The
“Canticles” had marked a new stage of his development as a composer and had brought
his music to a wider public.
Now, he was conscious of a new work taking shape. It had begun as a simple, wistful
melody on the piano, in waltz time. Whenever he played the piece, he had the feeling
there was another melody behind it: a gentle, elusive, fragrant melody that haunted
him all the more because he could not hear it on its own. He did not know what form
the work would ultimately take, but he had composed a set of variations on the melody
— which he felt ought to have a name, although he had no idea what it could be.
From his verandah, Dr Rees-Jones saw a small figure on a bicycle pedalling up the
hill towards his cottage. The cyclist — a young woman — dismounted at his gate and
leaned her bicycle against the letter box. She looked up. He waved. She waved back.
He saw the top of a dark glossy head bobbing above the lupins as she climbed the
zigzag path to the cottage.
Lavina Kozinsky hung her mail bag over the verandah railing. She smiled at him.
“It must be your lucky day, Alan. You have two letters. Usually you only get one.
Would you like me to make the coffee?”
“That would be lovely, thanks.”
Lavina went to the kitchen. She had worked in a Sydney café and knew the proper
way to make a latté. Dr Rees-Jones’s was the first to admit that his coffee-making
skills were considerably less developed than his skills in musical composition.
She returned with the coffee and sat at the table in a characteristic pose, with
her chin cupped in her hands. She had striking blue-grey eyes, and there was a light
in them that danced when she smiled.
“What was that piece I heard you playing on the piano a moment ago?” Lavina asked.
“It’s something that came to me recently. A theme and variations. It doesn’t have
a name yet.”
“Could you play it for me?”
“Of course.”
Dr Rees-Jones sat down at the piano and played the piece for her.
“It’s beautiful,” said Lavina. “The melody reminds me of something . . .O, I know,
it was a Polish lullaby my grandmother used to sing to me when I was very little!
You use the child’s name in the lullaby. I always thought of it as my own special
song.”
She sang it for him, in her throaty contralto.
“It’s not the same melody but it seems to be suggested by the melody you’ve composed.
Like a mirror image of it. How did you do that?”
“I’ve no idea. But now you mention it, the melody is like an old Welsh lullaby my
grandmother used to sing to me. Isn’t that extraordinary!”
“I love the theme and variations form in music. What are you going to do with the
piece?”
“I don’t know. It could end up in a symphony, or a concerto, or an opera. That’s
the way my musical inspiration seems to work: from something small and simple to
something bigger and more complex. I know one thing, though — what the piece is called.
It’s the ‘Lavina Variations’”.
Lavina laughed, the light danced in her eyes, and Dr Rees Jones felt he would like
to look into those eyes for some considerable time.
Instead, he stirred his coffee, which, not having sugar in it, did not actually require
vigorous stirring with a teaspoon.
“Aren’t you going to open your letters?” Lavina asked.
“Yes, I suppose I should,” said Dr Rees-Jones.
He picked up the larger of the two envelopes, which bore the crest of an Australian
university, and opened it. As he read it, Lavina noticed a look of perplexity cross
his face.
“It’s not bad news is it?”
“Not at all. I’ve been offered a position in a music department at a university in
Melbourne — as composer in residence. It’s a marvellous opportunity. It pays an excellent
salary and I’d be totally free to compose. All I’d be required to do is give some
tutorials to the senior composition students. And that’s not a problem — I love teaching.”
“So you’ll accept?”
“I’d be daft not to. I can’t afford to keep this place on much longer. I don’t make
enough from commissions and the occasional royalty payments to live on — not yet,
anyway. It’s a long slow road towards being a full-time professional composer. It’s
just that . . . ”
“You’re not sure about it?”
“It’s just that I’ve become very . . . attached . . . to this place. And to . . .”
The normally fluent Welshman seemed to become somewhat tongue-tied at this point.
“I’m attached to Calgati, too,” said Lavina. “I love coming back here in the university
vacation. They keep the job in the Post Office open for me every year. But I have
to go back to Sydney next month and start my thesis on the Romantic poets.”
“What’s Melbourne like?” asked Dr Rees-Jones. “I’ve never been there.”
“Melbourne? O, it’s a beautiful city. I could live there quite easily.”
“Could you?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, the English Department at Melbourne University is brilliant.”
“That’s interesting,” said Dr Rees-Jones.
At this point, his conversational skills abandoned him completely, and he was reduced
to peering into the dregs of his coffee cup for inspiration.
“What about your other letter?” Lavina asked, after a long pause.
“O that? It’s nothing important. Someone I know, that’s all.”
“Someone who’s been writing to you every day for the past three months, and it’s
not important?” said Lavina. “You must forgive me, but when you’re a postie you can’t
help but notice things like the handwriting and postmarks on the envelopes you slip
into people’s letter boxes.”
“So what have you noticed about the letters,” asked Dr Rees-Jones, his naturally
boyish cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink.
“Well, the handwriting is definitely not a woman’s,” said Lavina. “In fact, it looks
like the handwriting of a person who’s trying to conceal his identity. All the envelopes
and stamps are the same. It’s as if they were all written at the same time. They’ve
all been posted from the same town, at the same time every morning, for the past
three months. They all seem to contain a single sheet of paper. Not a thick writing
paper, more like a piece cut out of newspaper. No return address on the envelope.
That’s all I’ve noticed really.”
“I can see I’d better tell you who’s been sending the letters, and why,” said Dr
Rees-Jones, his cheeks now quite a bright shade of pink.
He told her, and she laughed in the throaty contralto voice that caused his heart
to turn over, and said she’d suspected it for some time. She made him open the envelope
and show her the piece of newspaper, and then take out all the other envelopes he’d
tossed into a drawer and open them too.
Then she kissed him.
“Hadn’t you better go back to work?” said Dr Rees-Jones a little while later, after
he’d kissed her back. “People may complain if their mail’s late.”
“Do you know what day this is?” Lavina asked.
“It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”
“Check your calendar. It’s Sunday.”
“But there’s no mail delivery on a Sunday,” said Dr Rees-Jones, looking puzzled.
“This was a special delivery,” said Lavina.
She took his hand, and they went for a long walk together on the beach.
Hundreds of miles away, in a home situated in one of the most beautiful valleys in
all Australia Fair, a low-pitched rumbling could be heard emerging from the shower
cubicle. An acute ear might have discerned that it was the sound of a basso profundo
voice, chanting in the key of E flat major.
The rumbling ceased momentarily. A very large man stepped out of the shower and pulled
on a bath robe.
“Behold thou art fair my love; thou art fair . . .”
A curly head appeared round the bathroom door.
“Breakfast’s ready, darling. And there’s a letter for you.”
“Thankyou my love. Mmmmmm-aah.”
Bulstrode kissed his wife and rumpled her hair.
He opened the letter at the breakfast table.
“It’s from Alan Rees-Jones. My old school chum from St. Bard's. You remember, he
wrote the music for our wedding. I was singing a piece from it in the shower.”
“So that’s what it was?” said Alison Bulstrode. “I thought it might have been the
water pipes vibrating. Yes, of course I remember Alan. How is he?”
“Pretty well, by the sound of things. He’s moving to Melbourne. Got a job at the
university composing music. He’s coming to visit us on the way. He says there’s another
exciting piece of news he wants to tell us in person.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Alison.
“He also says I can stop posting him the letters.”
“Letters? What letters?”
“Golly,” said Bulstrode. “I forgot to tell you about the letters. He sent me a big
bundle a few months ago. They were all stamped and addressed to him. He asked me
to post him one every day. Special favour for a mate.”
“Why on earth would he ask you to do that?” asked Alison.
“No idea at all,” said Bulstrode. “Maybe it was to keep the Australian postal service
occupied. Maybe to stop him feeling lonely. I didn’t think to ask.”
“You’re a typical male,” said Alison. “I think there’s a lot more to this than meets
the eye. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s a wedding in the offing. In fact,
I’m certain there is! I’ll ask Alan if he’d like me to organise the flowers.”
