The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (28 page)

‘He has no passion for chemistry or business and such a talent for music!’ Margarete had entreated him.

Jonas had looked at her coolly. ‘I have indulged you up until now, but Jens is no longer a child and must realise where his responsibilities lie. He will be the fifth generation of
Halvorsens to run our brewery. You have been deluding yourself if you thought your musical aspirations for our son would ever come to anything. Term starts in October. The matter is
closed.’

‘Please don’t cry, Mor,’ Jens had said to her after he’d heard the news from his devastated mother. ‘I never expected anything else.’

Just as Margarete had known would happen, in being forced to give up music for a subject in which he had no aptitude or interest, Jens had done little studying at university. And even more
dangerously, his natural high spirits and devil-may-care attitude had begun leading him astray.

As a light sleeper who woke at the slightest noise, she knew her son was often out until the small hours. Jens had a large circle of friends, who were all attracted by his
joie de vivre
and easy charm. Margarete knew he was generous to a fault, so much so that he would often come to her halfway through the month saying he’d used up the allowance from his father on gifts or
loans for this friend or that, and could she possibly see her way to tiding him over?

She often smelt stale alcohol on his breath, and had considered the possibility that excessive drinking also played a part in the emptying of his pockets. She suspected too that there were women
involved in his nocturnal exploits. Only last week she had seen a stain of lip paint upon his collar. But this at least she could understand: all young men – and even older ones – had
their needs, as Margarete knew to her cost. It was just masculine nature.

In her mind, the problem was very simple: with the prospect of a future he did not want, and without his beloved music, Jens was unfulfilled and turning to drink and women to drown his sorrows.
Margarete rose from the table, praying that Jens would go to meet Herr Hennum tomorrow. In her opinion, it was all that could save him.

Meanwhile, Jens lay on his bed upstairs thinking much the same thoughts as his mother. Long ago, he’d realised that a music career could never be a reality. In a few
months’ time, he would leave university and take his place in his father’s brewery.

The thought appalled him.

He wasn’t sure who he pitied most out of his parents: his father, a slave to his bank account and the endless machinations of his successful brewery, or his mother, who had brought a
much-needed pedigree to the union, but was anxious and dissatisfied with life. Jens could see clearly that their marriage was little more than a deal that had been struck for mutual gain. The
problem for him was that as their only offspring, he was forever being used as a pawn in their emotional chess game. Long ago, he’d learnt that he couldn’t win. And these days, neither
did he particularly care to try.

Although today, his mother had been right. He
was
almost of age. What if it
was
possible to reinvent the dream he’d once worked so hard for as a boy?

Hearing his mother leave the house after lunch, Jens slipped downstairs and, on a whim, entered the music room where his mother still took her occasional music pupils.

He sat down on the stool in front of the beautiful grand piano, his body automatically adopting the correct posture. Lifting the smooth wooden fallboard, he allowed his fingers to trail up and
down over the keys, realising it must be over two years since he’d last played. He began with Beethoven’s
Path
é
tique
sonata, which had always been a favourite
of his, remembering his mother’s patient tutoring and how easily it had come to him. ‘You must put your entire body into your playing,’ she had once said, ‘as well as your
heart and soul. These things are the mark of a true musician.’

Jens lost track of time as he played. And as the music swelled in the room, he forgot the struggle of the chemistry lectures he loathed and the future he dreaded, and allowed himself to
disappear into the glorious music, just as he used to.

As the last note reverberated around the room, Jens found there were tears in his eyes, simply from the joy of playing. And he made up his mind to meet Herr Hennum tomorrow.

At one thirty the following day, Jens sat down on another piano stool in the deserted orchestra pit of the Christiania Theatre.

‘So, Herr Halvorsen, I last heard you play ten years ago. Your mother tells me you have become an exceptional musician since,’ said Johan Hennum, the esteemed conductor of the
orchestra.

‘My mother is somewhat biased, sir.’

‘She also says that you have had no formal training at a music conservatory.’

‘Unfortunately, no, sir. I have been at university for the past two and a half years studying chemistry.’ Jens could already sense that the conductor believed he was wasting his
time. He had probably agreed to see him as a favour to his mother in return for the generous funding she provided for the arts. ‘But I should add that my mother has tutored me in music for
many years. She is, as you know, a most respected teacher.’

‘She is indeed. So, which do you regard as your main instrument out of the four your mother tells me you can play?’

‘Certainly, I enjoy playing the piano the most, but I feel I am able to acquit myself equally well on the violin, the flute or the
hardanger
fiddle.’

‘There is no part for the piano in Herr Grieg’s orchestrations for
Peer Gynt
. However, we are looking for a second violinist and another flautist. Here.’ Hennum handed
him some sheet music. ‘See what you make of the flute part and I’ll be back shortly to hear you play.’ The conductor nodded at him and disappeared through a door beneath the
stage.

Jens glanced through the music: ‘Prelude to Act IV: “Morning Mood”’. Taking his flute from its case, he fastened it together. The theatre was almost as cold as the
sub-zero temperature outside and he rubbed his numb fingers together vigorously in an attempt to get the blood circulating. Then he put the instrument to his lips and tried the first six notes . .
.

‘Right, Herr Halvorsen, shall we see how you’ve got on?’ said Johan Hennum briskly as he returned to the orchestra pit five minutes later.

Jens felt a need to impress this man, to prove himself capable of the task at hand. Thanking God for his ability to sight-read – a skill that had always helped to convince his mother that
he’d practised far more than he actually did – he began to play. Within seconds he found himself completely immersed in the haunting music, which was unlike anything he had ever heard
before. As he finished the piece, he lowered the flute from his lips and looked at Hennum.

‘For a first try, that really wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Now take this,’ he said, handing Jens another sheet of music. ‘It’s the part for the first violin. See
what you can do with it.’

Jens took his violin from its case and tuned it. Then he studied the music for a few minutes and practised the notes quietly before beginning to play.

‘Very good, Herr Halvorsen. Your mother’s description of your talent was not misplaced. And I admit to being surprised. You are certainly an excellent sight-reader, which will be
essential in the weeks to come, as I put the rather disparate members of my orchestra together. I will have no time to spare for mollycoddling. And let me assure you, playing in an orchestra is
very different to being a soloist. It will take you time to grasp the ways of it, and I should warn you that I tolerate no slack behaviour from my musicians. Normally, I’d be reticent to take
on a novice, but needs must. I’d like you to start within a week. What do you say?’

Jens stared at him, astonished that this man seemed to be offering him a position. He’d been absolutely sure that his lack of experience would elicit a negative response. Then again, it
was no secret that the Christiania orchestra was a ragbag mixture of musicians, given that there was no proper music school here and little talent to choose from. His mother had told him that a boy
aged just ten had once played in it.

‘I think that I would be honoured to take a place in your orchestra for such an important premiere,’ he found himself answering.

‘Then I am happy to have you, Herr Halvorsen. You have the makings of a fine musician. However, the wages are somewhat meagre – not that I believe that is a problem for you –
and the hours of rehearsal in the next few weeks will be long and arduous. And as you may have noticed, the surroundings are less than comfortable. I suggest that you wrap up warmly.’

‘Yes sir, I will.’

‘You mentioned to me that you are currently studying at the university. I presume you are happy to put your employment with the orchestra before your lectures?’

‘Yes,’ Jens replied, knowing what his father would have to say on the matter, but deciding that since it was his mother who had got him into this in the first place, it was up to her
to quash any objections at home. This was his route to freedom and he was taking it.

‘Please tell your mother I am grateful to her for sending you to me.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘So, rehearsals begin next week. I will see you bright and early on Monday morning at nine o’clock. And now I must go in search of a decent bassoonist, which for the life of me I
cannot find in this godforsaken city of ours. Good day to you, Herr Halvorsen, and please see yourself out.’

Jens watched the conductor leave the orchestra pit, feeling bemused by the sudden
volte-face
his life had just taken. He turned and looked into the gloom of the auditorium. He’d
been here many times with his mother to watch concerts and operas, but as he sat down abruptly on the piano stool, he felt suddenly overwhelmed. Recently, he knew he’d been drifting, simply
taking each day as it came, dreading graduation and his future as a brewer.

Just now, as he’d played Herr Grieg’s exquisite new composition, he’d felt a spark of his old exhilaration. When he was younger, he used to lie in bed thinking up tunes in his
head, then trying them out on the piano the next morning. He’d never written them down, but it was composing his own music that really inspired him.

Now, in the dim light of the orchestra pit, Jens put his frozen fingers to the keys of the grand piano and cast his mind back to the melodies he’d composed as a boy. There was one in
particular, not dissimilar in structure to Grieg’s newest composition, reminiscent of folk songs from the past. Jens began to play it from memory to the empty auditorium.