Stories of the Strange and Sinister (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) by Frank Baker Page A
Authors: Frank Baker
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black-haired, with a wasp-like waist and delicate engraving fingers with which he seemed to describe the shape of music in the air – suddenly poised his baton towards the singers. A glorious sound of music burst forth. Lorna and Brenda leant forward, giving of their utmost. Their great moment had come. The orchestra was silent while the singers poured out Delius’s exotic and vigorous harmonies.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, down the mighty river
Aye, Honey, I’ll be gone when next the whippoorwill’s a-calling . . .
And then the baritone soloist (distinguished from the common hacks of Sydenham, by full evening dress with tails and white tie): ‘And don’t you be too lonesome, love, and don’t you fret and cry.’
It was during this snatch of solo that Rye Merton noticed, far up in the glass dome of the hall, a tiny dark speck. It did not impress itself on him greatly. But when he next looked along the first row of the lady trebles, he realized that there was a space where Miss Ponsonby had been.
Neither Brenda nor Lorna, her immediate neighbours in the hall, had anything to report in the inquiries which followed. They had been so intent on the singing, their eyes so glued to Sir Kenneth (who had been a bit of a martinet at the morning’s rehearsal), that all thought of anything but the music had gone, as it should have gone, right out of their minds. It was not, in fact, until the work ended on the long drawn-out string notes, that Lorna realized the place next to her was empty. And that, during the singing, with the women’s first entry, she thought she had heard a faint chirruping sound. Brenda said that she had definitely felt something soft and light flutter against her cheek, for only a second. Other strange stories bewildered the curious. Sir Kenneth said that he had been put off his beat, for a moment or two, by the sudden intrusion of a peculiarly beautiful singing, far above him. He had glanced up but seen nothing.
Mr Henry Brissey, the soloist, came forward with an astonishing yarn. He had never noticed Miss Ponsonby at all. She would be to him, only one of many undistinguished ladies. But he had noticed, he said, a small dark bird, flutter away from the front row of the trebles and disappear quickly far up into the roof of the hall.
He was, naturally, laughed at. But nobody had anything more plausible to report. Miss Polly Ponsonby, who had certainly taken her place with the other ladies at the beginning of the concert, had completely disappeared by the end of the first half.
After endless investigations by the police, it was finally assumed that Miss Ponsonby must be dead. In her will she left the house, all its contents, and her small bank balance to Barley, ‘in return for companionship through a great crisis’. There was a legacy of a hundred pounds for a Bird-watching Society. One curious feature of the will related to Mr Ponsonby’s flute: this was to be given, if possible, Christian burial. Barley buried it herself, reverently, with Rye in attendance, in the back-garden, and made a little bed of forget-me-nots over it.
It was many weeks before Barley realized a curious thing. Always, outside the house, vaguely in the air, there seemed to be the distant and heavenly sound of a bird singing. This persisted, sometimes far away, sometimes near, throughout the winter months. Spring came. There were days when Barley thought she could see the bird, very high up, a mere speck. Then, one May morning, when she had risen very early and the smell of summer filled the air, Barley, leaning over her bedroom window saw, nearer than ever it had been, the bird who had kept her company throughout the winter. It was, without a doubt, a skylark.
Acting on a strange and touching impulse, she called, ‘Polly, Polly, is it you?’
The bird was singing as though its heart would break. And for several seconds it would not stop. Barley called again.
‘Polly, I believe that it is you.’
It was Polly. And suddenly
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, down the mighty river
Aye, Honey, I’ll be gone when next the whippoorwill’s a-calling . . .
And then the baritone soloist (distinguished from the common hacks of Sydenham, by full evening dress with tails and white tie): ‘And don’t you be too lonesome, love, and don’t you fret and cry.’
It was during this snatch of solo that Rye Merton noticed, far up in the glass dome of the hall, a tiny dark speck. It did not impress itself on him greatly. But when he next looked along the first row of the lady trebles, he realized that there was a space where Miss Ponsonby had been.
Neither Brenda nor Lorna, her immediate neighbours in the hall, had anything to report in the inquiries which followed. They had been so intent on the singing, their eyes so glued to Sir Kenneth (who had been a bit of a martinet at the morning’s rehearsal), that all thought of anything but the music had gone, as it should have gone, right out of their minds. It was not, in fact, until the work ended on the long drawn-out string notes, that Lorna realized the place next to her was empty. And that, during the singing, with the women’s first entry, she thought she had heard a faint chirruping sound. Brenda said that she had definitely felt something soft and light flutter against her cheek, for only a second. Other strange stories bewildered the curious. Sir Kenneth said that he had been put off his beat, for a moment or two, by the sudden intrusion of a peculiarly beautiful singing, far above him. He had glanced up but seen nothing.
Mr Henry Brissey, the soloist, came forward with an astonishing yarn. He had never noticed Miss Ponsonby at all. She would be to him, only one of many undistinguished ladies. But he had noticed, he said, a small dark bird, flutter away from the front row of the trebles and disappear quickly far up into the roof of the hall.
He was, naturally, laughed at. But nobody had anything more plausible to report. Miss Polly Ponsonby, who had certainly taken her place with the other ladies at the beginning of the concert, had completely disappeared by the end of the first half.
After endless investigations by the police, it was finally assumed that Miss Ponsonby must be dead. In her will she left the house, all its contents, and her small bank balance to Barley, ‘in return for companionship through a great crisis’. There was a legacy of a hundred pounds for a Bird-watching Society. One curious feature of the will related to Mr Ponsonby’s flute: this was to be given, if possible, Christian burial. Barley buried it herself, reverently, with Rye in attendance, in the back-garden, and made a little bed of forget-me-nots over it.
It was many weeks before Barley realized a curious thing. Always, outside the house, vaguely in the air, there seemed to be the distant and heavenly sound of a bird singing. This persisted, sometimes far away, sometimes near, throughout the winter months. Spring came. There were days when Barley thought she could see the bird, very high up, a mere speck. Then, one May morning, when she had risen very early and the smell of summer filled the air, Barley, leaning over her bedroom window saw, nearer than ever it had been, the bird who had kept her company throughout the winter. It was, without a doubt, a skylark.
Acting on a strange and touching impulse, she called, ‘Polly, Polly, is it you?’
The bird was singing as though its heart would break. And for several seconds it would not stop. Barley called again.
‘Polly, I believe that it is you.’
It was Polly. And suddenly
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