By Martin Pearson
It is fair to say that the islanders of Hopeless, Maine, can never be accused of being overly materialistic. When living in an environment which is generally agreed to be hostile to both life and limb, any preoccupation with trivial baubles and trinkets is widely regarded as being shallow in the extreme. Having said this, there is one item which is valued above all others, and tended with the reverence that certain cultures might reserve for an artefact of deep religious significance. I speak, of course, of the Edison-Bell Phonograph.
Seasoned readers of ‘The Vendetta’ will recall that the arrival of the phonograph on the island was, at first, regarded with some suspicion (as related in the tale ‘Ghost in the Machine’). However, once the populace had been exposed to the sound of a strangulated Irish tenor warbling ‘Molly Malone’, and had joined in a few refrains of ‘Alive, alive-o’, all was deemed well and the Edison-Bell machine, along with the ‘Molly Malone’ wax cylinder, was trotted out at every possible opportunity. It was a year or two later that the dance troupe ‘Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge’ became shipwrecked on Hopeless. They brought with them a huge trunkful of costumes and wax-cylinders of Offenbach’s ‘Infernal Galop’ (or the Can-Can, for most of us) and the Parisian Apache dance, ‘Valses des Rayons’, also by Offenbach. From then onwards, the status of the phonograph reached new heights. Had it been the Ark of the Covenant itself, it could barely have been treated with greater respect.
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Reggie Upton, “that you have this marvellous machine, and it only plays three tunes?”
“That’s all anyone wants to hear,” said Philomena. “Everybody likes to see Les Demoiselles, and Molly Malone is a particular favourite at any event, especially when it comes to the chorus, and they can all join in. Personally, I wouldn’t care if I never heard it again.”
“Are there other cylinders hidden away somewhere?” asked Reggie.
“Oh yes, but nothing anyone seems very interested in. All classical stuff, I think. They’ll be up in one of the attics, somewhere.”
Reggie pursed his lips thoughtfully, then, without another word, wandered into the bar to speak to the landlord, Bartholomew Middlestreet.
“We really must do this,” said Reggie, the following day. “I have discovered an absolute treasure trove of music up in the attics.”
The others seated around the table seemed sceptical. The ‘Music Committee’, as Reggie had insisted on calling the hastily assembled group, comprised of himself, Philomena, Bartholomew, Norbert Gannicox and Mirielle D’Illay, who represented Les Demoiselles.
“While not wishing to be a killjoy,” said Philomena, “I don’t honestly think that there is anything there that anyone is likely to want to hear.”
“Sorry, but I don’t agree,” said Reggie. “Most of the music on those cylinders is very accessible. Heaven knows, I am but a simple soldier with a limited knowledge of music, but I could certainly be entertained by what we have.”
Much of this, of course was blatantly untrue. Reggie was from an old, aristocratic family, he had enjoyed an eye-wateringly expensive education and had risen to the rank of brigadier in the British army. What was correct, however, was that his musical tastes would never be considered as being remotely highbrow.
“Give us some examples, then,” challenged Norbert.
“Well, there’s the Drinking Song from La Traviata, that’s great fun. Then we have the Turkish Rondo by Mozart, Danse Macabre by Saint-Saëns… believe me, there is plenty to go for.”
“And will you be presenting this?” asked Bartholomew
“Definitely not,” said Reggie. “If we have a concert it should be a young person running the show. A difficult audience won’t warm to some old fuddy-duddy like me telling them what’s on the programme.”
“Then who will it be?” asked Philomena, anxiously hoping that she would be regarded as being much too old for the job.
“Septimus will do it,” said Mirielle.
“That would be good,” said a much relieved Philomena. “Will you ask him, please, Mirielle?”
“Non. I will tell him. He will do as he is told,” said Mirielle firmly, and no one was in any doubt that her fiancé would have no choice but to present the forthcoming entertainment.
“So, you’re really going to do this?” Egbert Washwell said to his brother, a hint of mockery in his voice.
“It will be easy,” said Septimus airily. “It’s just a few old composers’ names and the titles of their tunes.”
“Who have you got there?” asked Egbert, not really caring.
“Mozart, Verdi, Saint-Saëns, Grieg and Rimsky-Korsakov.”
Egbert burst out laughing.
“Rips His Corset Off? Who is that – it’s surely not his real name?”
“No, Rimsky-Korsakov. He composed something called ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee.”
“Good old Rips His Corset Off,” chuckled Egbert. “I bet you get that one wrong.”
Septimus practised introducing the various pieces of work for a whole week before the concert took place. He was confident that he would be able to memorise each composer and their music. Mirielle had ensured that he was able to pronounce Saint-Saëns correctly, and the only name that was still giving him trouble was, inevitably, Rimsky-Korsakov. Every time he tried to refer to the composer, it came out as Rips His Corset Off. If only Egbert had not put that thought into his mind, all would have been well.
The Big Night came, and to the great relief of the Music Committee, the event seemed to be progressing without a hitch, partly because the audience had been promised that if they could sit quietly through the concert, they could have at least one rendition of ‘Molly Malone’ at the end of the evening. The song had apparently achieved something resembling the stature of a national anthem.
Despite fears to the contrary, everyone was happily tapping their feet to the Turkish Rondo, swaying in time to Verdi’s Drinking Song and genuinely enjoying the experience. Only Septimus was uneasy. ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee’ was the last classical piece on the programme, and he was still having a barely-disguised panic-attack at the thought of having to introduce the dreaded name of Rimsky-Korsakov.
“Rimsky-Korsakov… Rimsky-Korsakov… Rimsky-Korsakov…” he kept repeating to himself, desperately trying to avoid thinking about Rips His Corset Off. To make matters worse, Egbert was sitting in the audience, just a few feet away from him. He had a huge grin plastered over his smug face and was obviously willing his brother to get it wrong. Catching Septimus’ eye, he gleefully mouthed the words ‘Rips His Corset Off’.
Septimus’ heart sank and his mouth felt as though it was full of dust when the inevitable moment arrived.
With sweat trickling down his neck and his face flushing, Septimus loosened his collar, drew a deep breath and said,
“And finally, a piece of music from the great Russian composer… Rimsky-Korsakov…”
A huge feeling of relief swept over the young man, as he gratefully added, with an expansive wave of his hand…
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you… The Bum of the Flightle Bee.”