Stories of the Strange and Sinister (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) by Frank Baker

detected by those who sat near to Polly, including her old friend Miss Dunstable, the librarian. Although, at that first, and at subsequent rehearsals, Polly opened her mouth and appeared to be singing, she never actually made a sound. Miss Dunstable listened carefully. No – not even a whisper. That limpid treble of Polly’s seemed to have vanished like a dried-up spring. Miss Dunstable, being tactful, said no word to anyone. Dr Murdoch, with even his keen ear, was unable to detect, amongst a choir of nearly a hundred men and women, that one of them was contributing precisely nothing. Only Miss Dunstable and another lady, Mrs Reeks, a chemist’s wife, realised what was happening, or rather, what was not happening. Yet Polly herself seemed to be completely satisfied. She even remarked, at the end of the first rehearsal: ‘How lovely it is to sing again, Lorna! And what a beautiful work it is!’
    Lorna Dunstable glanced significantly at Brenda Reeks.
    ‘Yes, dear,’ she said. ‘One can see how you enjoy it.’
    At the next rehearsal – the same thing happened. At the third – again, not a sound from that wrinkled little face.
    Barley knew nothing of all this. Like anyone else, she was merely happy to see Polly so much more like her old self – her pre-flute self. And on the day of the concert she helped Polly put the finishing touches to the white satin dress she would have to wear. It was hard not to laugh at her appearance; and Barley felt glad that her work at the theatre would not allow her to be present at the concert. To watch all those mummies warbling away would have been, Barley knew, too much for her. But she reminded Rye and advised him to be present, in case of anything unusual happening.
    What happened at that concert was very unusual indeed. And yet it was not detected by even Rye Merton, who had taken a seat fairly near the orchestra and was able to pick out Miss Ponsonby, in her white dress, with all the other ladies – young, middle-aged, old, thin, fat, red-faced, white-faced, cross-eyed, bandy-legged – who filled the tiered seats behind the orchestra. He could pick out Polly, chiefly because she was so small, standing at least a foot and a half below Lorna Dunstable and Brenda Reeks. (Brenda was an Olympic woman of operatic build; Lorna was sylph-like, and swayed like a murmuring reed when she sang.) In between these two, Polly looked like a faint white blob, a large piece of cottonwool dropped there by mistake.
    Rye watched her eagerly. It seemed literally hours before the chorus had anything to do. Delius, an impractical composer, seems to take a delight in dragging on an enormous chorus and only using it for the last few episodes of an abnormally long and luscious work. Rye was terribly bored. He was no musician and kept glancing at the programme notes, trying to make out which variation they had reached. They all seemed much the same to him, except that some were loud, some soft, some slow, some fast.
    After hours of this, Rye began to get restless and long for the bar. The chorus hadn’t even stood up yet. Perhaps, thought Rye, he had made a mistake and they were singing in the next work. But there was an interval after the Appalachian Variations. No; sooner or later all these grotesque women in white and these waxwork dummies in black would open their mouths.
    Sure enough they did. The men first, singing la-la-la in soft undertones of sound, like waves on a seashore. Then more la-la-la. Then much more from the orchestra and Rye began to think the women were only brought there just to fill up the seats. He had, by now, lost interest in Polly, though he noticed her from time to time. Her face was always turned to the conductor.
    Then, at long last, with a wave of the hand from the conductor, all the ladies and gentlemen of Sydenham Choral Society rose to their feet. One could almost hear their sigh of relief. And now, everybody’s eye was fixed on Sir Kenneth Corporal who, sleek and