A Right Royal Face-Off by Simon Edge

Author:Simon Edge
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eye Books
Published: 2019-05-20T18:33:40+00:00

13

Mirth swirled in the air along with the smoke of a score of tobacco pipes. Tom was the butt of it, but his friends’ teasing caused him no hurt. The subject was musick, the playing thereof – most particularly, his own playing thereof – but he was immune to their ridicule.

He had first attempted to master the violin, spending money that Mrs Gainsborough did not know he had on the finest instrument he could find. Bach had heard him play, then told him the massacre of a herd of cats would sound more melodious. Tom was not put off. Instead, he set about expanding his repertoire of instruments by buying Abel’s viola da gamba from him and attempting to learn that, and also taking up the hautboy, in imitation of Fischer. Each instrument made musick of sublime beauty in those men’s hands; in Tom’s, the result was more feline cacophony, but he had refused to give it up. He knew it exasperated his friends when they were forced to endure his noise; at other times, when they were of more indulgent humour, it caused them great merriment. Their current attitude was the latter, in unbridled expression, after he had announced his intention to take up the harp.

‘It is a celestial instrument, to be sure,’ said Bach.

‘The musick of the angels,’ agreed Fischer

Tom had re-admitted his son-in-law as a friend for Molly’s sake, and because he liked the society of musicians.

‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Abel. ‘Usually.’ He caught his compatriots’ eyes and now the three of them began to laugh: Abel shaking silently, his immense belly wobbling under his waistcoat; Bach slapping his own thigh; and Fischer grinning like a cat who had found a whole smoked mackerel as well as a bowl of cream.

Tom sighed, and turned in his chair to wave for more coffee. An aproned boy plucked a tall black pot from its place at the front of the hearth and presented himself at their end of the long, communal table. He proceeded to make theatre of pouring the steaming, bitter liquid into their empty dishes from a great height, without a drop spilt.

If only Tom’s friends would understand it, not being good at the instruments was precisely the attraction for him. In the business of pictures, he was always under scrutiny, with the expectations of sitters, the public and the newspapers pushing him to excel. How refreshing it was to have the freedom to be bad at something, completely execrable, and for it not to matter, except to the protesting ears of his musician friends. Let them make as merry as they liked at his expense: he would not desist from his playing.

‘It makes my ears to hurt just to think about it, so let us please stop talking about this,’ said Abel. ‘Gainsborough, my friend, tell me: how goes the King? I hear you are with him every day.’

‘Hardly,’ said Tom. ‘Every two days, perhaps.’

This was a different kind of ribbing, and he was happy for them to believe, if they wanted, that he spent all his time at court.

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