Strandpiel 27
Die Meisie op die Bench V0.4
Corrections and changes et c et c. Bloody FF formatting disqualifies quoting Cricket rules in the accepted MCC form (ii) so I have to spread them out and re-grammatise them as to 12: 7: 5: 2: (ii)
In which the three sisters pursue different avenues in Music, Sport and Art. Famke finds herself in an orchestra. Bekki, against her better judgement and inclination, at a fifteen-a-side game and Ruth is out shopping for art supplies.
First, a song, which very fittingly is part in English, part in Afrikaans, and deals with a South African national passion. Look up the video – very funny and tells the tale of Bokkies' superfan Jan. And Elton.
There are twenty-two manne in a rugby team today;
1 to 8 the vories, 9 to 15 agterlyn,
Sixteen to twenty two, the manne on the bench;
But someone tough is missing, someone famous and intense.
Jan, Jan, Jan, hy's die soul van die span!
Every Saturday at the game, pak hy alles wat hy kan,
Brannas, Nartjie, sy kitaartjie, gasbraai, boerewors en bun;
And he shouts vol uit sy bors uit "I am here for you, my span!"
And the team shouts "Player 23, we are here for you ou Jan!"
Jan, Jan, Jan, is die seel van die span…
(first verse of Robbie Wessels, "Player Twenty-Three")
I also think I've dropped enough clues for the alert reader to be able to identify the music the Assassins' Guild Orchestra will be playing on their May Recital Night at the Opera House. Who knows, Famke's individual part in it might become apparent without my needing to drop any spoilers…
The Assassins' Guild School, Saturday afternoon.
Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons tried not to scowl as she sat up straight on the hard chair, a music stand and a score in front of her. This was adding extra hours to the School week after one o'clock on a Saturday and eating into time that she felt, in the depths of her soul, really belonged to her.
Then she reflected that that was probably the wrong way of thinking about it and that this was music time. Musicians time. You happily spend time with Ruthie in the studio when you're at home, kicking around ideas together, playing songs and themes? Beccs too, if she's home? Well, then. Same sort of thing here, only this is the School Orchestra. And Miss Glynnie apparently had a lot of persuading to do with old Ubersetzer to get you in, so put up with it. This is for Miss.
Famke decided she was going to take this seriously. She sighed. She wondered if this was what growing up was like. Being responsible. To do things, even if you didn't want to, because they were the right things to do. It all felt really boring and sort of constipating.
Famke looked to where Miss Glynnie was standing at the front of her personally-selected Percussion Section, the ones she had described as the very best, the most able, and the most talented. Famke remembered people had looked at her when Miss had said this. (1)
"You are going to be the Percussion Section of the School Orchestra when we perform our Annual Concert in May." Miss Glynnie had said. "Therefore, over the next two months, we will be rehearsing our part in those pieces selected for orchestral performance. We will be rehearsing both as a group, and individually. I have every confidence we are going to get this right."
Famke sighed. Losing a couple of hours of her Saturday afternoon was a pain in the bum, yes. But the idea of being part of a full orchestra intrigued her. She'd seen performances, as a spectator. The one thing she had not been prepared for was the wall of sound. And how it all made quite a nice, harmonious, sound. Being a part of it interested her. And she was still only, just about, twelve. She couldn't help noticing that most of the people around her were at least Fifth Form, with a few upper Sixth. At least fifteen-sixteen. She was the youngest person in the room.
Famke half-scowled again. In a School this size where everybody had to do music, no exceptions, it sort of followed on that there'd be some people who were actually good at it. Hence an Orchestra. Probably so old Ubersetzer got a chance to teach music, and not to wince or have nervous tics. But… why her? She was still only in the Second Year. Everybody around her was on the Black. She looked over at Miss Glynnie's inscrutable face again. She was out front in Seven-A, conferring with the two other musicians brought in to assist. Famke shrugged. She'd probably find out the reasons.
As miss Glynnie called the percussionists to attention and advised them to turn to page one of the first movement, Famke was wondering what her two sisters were up to.
"As the performance piece involves a full orchestra, I have asked Miss Rogerson to play the main themes of the string section on the piano. You should have no difficulty following them and coming in on your appropriate cues. If you get it wrong, this is an opportunity to improve. As the first movement also has a significant brass involvement, Mr duPris will play the relevant themes on Quirmian Horn and Trumpet as they occur. These are also cues, or responses, to the percussion themes. Ready? Countdown in two, three, one…"
Miss Rogerson, a Teaching Assistant employed to do Pianos and Pianofortes, began a very low, soft, musical phrase on the piano. After a few bars, Ampie duPris lifted the Quirmian Horn to his lips and blew a repeating call. Sound, somehow mournful, sounded like an approaching post wagon, or perhaps a distant cavalry call. Several repetitions of the Quirmian Horn theme later, Ampie set down the instrument, picked up his trumpet and waited for his next cue, following the logic of the notation on the score, as somewhere behind him in the percussion section, several military side-drums began to pick up a low vibrating beat.
Famke heard Miss Glynnie calling "piano, piano!" at the drummers, wondered, then realised this was Brindisian for "softer! softer!"
She wondered how the Hecks you got drummers to play so softly you could barely hear them, then glanced across to where they were barely scraping the skins with their drumsticks.
Famke scowled again. She looked over to her sister's drippy-but-decent BF, who had his trumpet poised, waiting for his cue. She reflected most of the first movement was apparently a long trumpet solo, with the rest of the horn section reduced to a sort of backing line who chimed in on the choruses. Well, apart from the Principal Quirmian Horn, who got to do his solo early on. Ampie was playing both parts here, as, well, they came one after the other so he didn't need to play them both simultaneously. He was here just to establish the structure of the piece, so the percussion could come in at the right times.
The fact she really didn't have anything to do until about thirteen minutes into a seventeen minute long piece was irksome. It got more irksome when Mikki Kovanäänen, a sixth-form pupil who Famke conceded was at least interesting to look at, what with that really blond hair that was so blond it was almost white, and those cheekbones, grinned at her and lifted the big padded drumsticks. On cue, he brought them down on the big, the really big, kettledrum timpani, the instrument Famke really longed with all her heart to make serious noise on, beating out a theme that counterpointed Ampie's solo trumpet perfectly.
From six feet away, it was loud. Famke tried to make herself look impassive as Miss Glynnie signalled approval to Mikki for a nearly flawless performance.
She sighed again. The first movement was seriously percussion-heavy and called for a big percussion section. Except for Famke. The second long movement was slow and serene and had almost nothing for percussionists to do. Famke wondered if they could, you know, have a hand of cards or two here, so as to pass the time. Miss Glynnie had vetoed this and pointed out that it was a heaven-sent opportunity, of you belonged to a professional orchestra, to settle back, listen to the music, and reflect you were at that moment being paid to do nothing.
Mikki Kovanäänen had then raised a hand, and said that the Ballade movement lasted eight minutes. He'd heard that the pit orchestra at the Opera House were adept at using long breaks in the music, where their services were not called upon, to slip away, go over to the road to the Stab in the Back, drink at least one pint, and then be back in the orchestra for their next cue before anybody noticed.
Miss Glynnie had advised him that we will be playing at the Opera House, yes. But that is where the resemblance ends, Mr Mikki Kovanäänen. We are not a pit orchestra. We will be on stage in front of everybody. Everybody will include practically every member of the Dark Council, plus invited City dignitaries, and possibly even Lord Vetinari himself. I am therefore insisting on best behaviour from my musicians. And in any case, the Ballade movement is timed at seven minutes and fifty-eight seconds.
Miss Glynnie had then said "If after graduation you get a job with a professional orchestra, Mr Kovanäänen, there will be time for that sort of thing in later life. For instance, there was a time in Sto Kerrig where members of the percussion section took advantage of an on-stage trapdoor to discreetly leave the stage for a drink, while an interminable operatic duet was going on and occupying the attention of the audience."
Miss Glynnie had looked faraway and lost in memory for an instant. Famke had grinned. Her teacher was okay.
"Did that include you, Miss?" Famke had asked.
Miss Glynnie smiled serenely.
"I toured as an orchestral percussionist for twelve years." she said. "What do you think? And if you are paying attention, Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, you can infer from that statement that I know all the dodges."
But for now, miss Glynne explained that the central Ballade section had almost no percussion in it and was carried principally by the strings and the woodwind. "We will therefore skip this part. Those of you who are needed for the Ballade, I will deal with individually. For now, let us go back to the top of the Intermezzo movement and we will do it again. Then we will move onto the concluding Alla Marcia, which has lots of percussion in it."
Miss Glynnie nodded at Famke and smiled slightly.
Far more so than the Intermezzo. First. Some observations for improvement, by person…"
Famke made herself sit straight and pay attention. She tried to understand how an orchestral practice and rehearsal was organised, realising this was a big step up from solo learning, playing and practice. This was the real deal. Besides, Miss might ask questions later. Again, stray thoughts wondered what her two sisters were up to. There must be other things to do on a Saturday afternoon…
The Hendrik Verwoerd Sports and Recreation Fields, Bitterfontein. Saturday.
Bekki wondered if she should have brought a book to read. She sighed, resignedly, and decided that might not have been a good idea. She should be seen to be remaining alert and taking an interest. At least she was getting an afternoon in Bitterfontein town, which was variety. Even if it meant sitting on a hard wooden bench in a dug-out trench pretending to be interested in fifteen-a-side. Idly, she wondered if not being that into fifteen-a-side disqualified her from being a True Rimwards Howondalandian.
Then she reflected that her father was from Ankh-Morpork and she'd been born and brought up there, and besides, even Aunt Mariella had said about fifteen-a-side that she could "take it or leave it". This made her feel a little bit better about it.
Saturdays on the plaas were still working days. Notionally work ended at midday; but there were always things to do on a working farm, even if less people were doing less work, but necessary work, on a Saturday afternoon, with a skeleton staff. It was accepted that Saturday afternoons were family time, personal time. Shopping needed to be done, relaxation time needed to be fitted in, time out from work was to be enjoyed. Bekki's morning had been quiet enough. She had delivered the usual morning therapy and pain relief to Mevrou Hendricka, and her only patients had been one of the housegirls with minor burns in a kitchen accident, and a field-hand who had taken a glancing kick from a bloody-minded guard-donkey.(2)
Aunt Mariella and Mevrou Hendricka had lingered long enough at the sports fields to make introductions for Bekki, and to be present at the start of the match, and then they'd gone off to visit the town. Uncle Horst had gone to greet the brus in the team and there had been the usual oke stuff, loud exultant cries of "Hey, Horst, m'cuzzie! Howzit!".
Bekki had been introduced to the match officials and the team captains as the duty medical officer for the game. This had been interesting. Back home in Ankh-Morpork, the convention was that as fifteen-a-side in its origins was a Llamedosian religious ritual, the match officials, or at least the presiding referee, should be Druids.(3) This had mutated over the years into an accepted convention that other religions could provide at least the touch-judges, under the auspices, ultimately, of High Priest Ridcully.(4) Druidism still had a controlling interest, but ecumenicism had taken over. The Governing Council of fifteen-a-side still met at Small Gods in Ankh-Morpork with delegates from around the world.
Bekki realised that Rimwards Howondaland had taken it a step further. In a nation which had a State Religion, one of the three match officials was indeed a priest, a Dominie of the Kerrigian Reformed Church of Offler and Blind Io. The others were laity, civilians. This, she thought, made pragmatic sense: other religions could practice in Rimwards Howondaland(5), religious freedom was in the Constitution and everything(6), but Druids would be a bit thin on the ground here, given the sheer number of fifteen-a-side games kicking off around justnow on a Saturday afternoon.
She gathered that the Reverend Duideliik would be running one of the lines and the game was in the hands of Mr van Langhout, who seemed at first glance to be a completely unlikely person to be running a game involving thirty seriously big okes.
Mr van Langhout smiled up at Mevrou Hendricka, who had accompanied Bekki to make the introductions.
"Six years experience, you say, Hendricka." he remarked, looking at Bekki.
"She started young." Hendricka Lensen agreed. "But she has a knack for healthcare. A vocation."
"Indeed. I can't help noticing you're walking far more easily than when I saw you last, Hendricka. Only one stick, and you're barely using that."
Hendricka Lensen smiled, happily.
"Now ask yourself who's responsible for the change, Braam." she said.
Abraam van Langhout looked appraisingly at Bekki.
"Physical therapy?" he asked Hendricka, whilst looking at Bekki.
"Ja. She learnt it in a place called Lancre."
Mr van Langhout whistled.
"You know, I wondered about whether a girl of – seventeen, is it, Miss Smith-Rhodes? – might struggle a bit as medical officer at a game." He remarked. "But you said. Lancre."
"You know Lancre, Mr van Langhout?" Bekki said.
The match referee grinned.
"You hear stories." he said. "About a place where girls of your age learn how to be very good healthcare practitioners. Besides, Hendricka and Mariella explained what they had in mind and why."
He looked at Hendricka Lensen again.
"Last time I saw Hendricka, she was hobbling on two sticks." he said. "I was quite worried for her. Whatever you're doing for her works."
"Ag, don't fuss, Braam." Hendricka said. "Now you've approved of your medical person, shall we move on?"
She led the way, with Braam van Langhout delivering nods to his two touch judges that said "This girl will do just fine" and left the office room underneath the grandstand to go out onto the field. There was one more piece of official business to conclude; Bekki was introduced to the two team captains, both enormous men who towered over the referee. She was accepted by both on the referee's say-so, and she noted that they both treated the comparatively tiny older man with very great respect and called him "sir".
"Horst Lensen said you're good." said the Bitterfontein team captain. "And, well, we all know Mevrou Mariella."
Bekki nodded. She also noted their giving respectful looks to Mevrou Hendricka.
"You're Mev'Mariella's sister, miss?" the Kirstenbosch captain asked. Bekki shook her head. People always asked this.
"Her niece. Young aunt. Although we might as well be."
"You know the rules." the referee said. "Anyone gets hurt badly enough for Miss Smith-Rhodes to take a look at him. If she says he's off, no argument, he's off. If she says he's fit to go back on again after treatment, he comes back on. If she says he stays off for the duration, he stays off. I go by her decision."
He nodded up at the two big men.
"Yes, sir." both said, promptly.
They both looked down at Bekki, who smiled back up.
"She's good, Mauritz." Mevrou Hendricka said. "Any more of her treatment, and I might be able to go dancing again."
"Ja, Mevrou." both team captains said, respectfully.
"And remember." Referee van Langhout said. "What's Rule One?"
The huge man from Kirstenbosch grinned.
"Rule One, sir. The referee is always right, sir."
Braam van Langhout nodded appreciatively. He turned to the Bitterfontein captain.
"Now you tell me Rule Two?"
"Rule Two, sir." Mauritz said, unhesitatingly. "Rule Two says that if the referee is ever wrong, sir, refer to Rule One!"
"Good lads." The referee said, approvingly. He eyeballed both team captains. "And don't either of you forget it!"
Mevrou Hendricka led Bekki out into the sunlight. They walked together to the designated Medical Officer Station, a covered trench with a rudimentary pitched roof made from the inevitable corrugated iron. There was a single long wide wooden bench in there.
"Known Braam all my life." she said. "He was a good scrum-half in his time. Went into refereeing after. Did I mention he's Principal at the local high school for boys? He taught two of mine. And just about every player on that field today will have been to his school."
"Now I get it." Bekki said. "He made me think at first of a policeman I know in Ankh-Morpork. Inspector Pessimal. Same sort of size and build. But get him angry and he'll fight a troll."
"That's Braam." Hendricka agreed. "Little fellow. Had to hold his own among the big boys. They only usually tried bullying him once."
Bekki caught affection in Hendricka's voice, but didn't remark on it. It was something to remember, part of the store of information a witch built up about her people.
Also, it makes a difference if the referee is also your old Headmaster. Better for discipline on the field.
They caught up with Mariella and went to the bunker together.
"Got a few things to do in town." her aunt said. "But we have to stay for this. Verdraainer's here, for one thing. He'll take notes who doesn't stay for this part."
Bekki noted the grandstand was filling quickly. She also noted it was built as two separate grandstands, back-to-back, with the rear-facing part looking out over a neighbouring field. She heard the pock sound of a ball bouncing off a bat, and had a sudden suspicion. She turned in her seat and looked round over the open rear wall of the medical station.
Yes. There it was. A game of crockett was in full swing and looked like it had been in play for several days with no sign of stopping. The inevitable white-clad men on a sort of green field. It was green by Rimwards Howondalandian standards, perhaps greener than most, but with the inevitable patches of red-brown earth. She noted real effort had been made to keep the central playing area with the long narrow wickett as green and lush as anything you'd see in Ankh-Morpork.
"Bitterfontein against Uniondale." Aunt Mariella explained. "Our dear nation's other national sport."
"Ah." Bekki said, reminded again of the ethnic mix in this part of Howondaland.
"Mariella says there's a young man who plays?" Hendricka prompted her. "Back in Ankh-Morpork?"
Bekki reddened slightly.
"Ag. That sort of young man." Hendricka said, kindly.
She explained about Ampie. A part of her mind, prompted by wondering what he was doing justnow, threw up a glimpse of his playing trumpet somewhere. She frowned. Famke was in it too, for some reason. Maybe he's been invited home for Saturday afternoon. Mum likes him, she'd do that. They don't play crockett in Ankh-Morpork in March. I bet he's in the studio playing with Ruthie and Famke or something.
"A Boer boy. But living in Ankh-Morpork he decided he'd rather play crockett than fifteen-a-side." Hendricka observed. "If you want to bring him here for a day, Rebecka, I have no objections."
They watched the military band, drawn from the local garrison at Fort Rust, form up and march out onto the field. Bekki was reminded this was Ampie's plan for National Service; to use his musical credentials to get an easy garrison posting for two years. No doubt he'd spend his Saturday afternoons at gigs like this. She hoped so. It would keep him safely away from any fighting fronts or frontier garrisons.
Another part of her mind reflected on the instability on the Zulu border she'd been hearing of. It was deeply worrying. It could suck everybody in. She'd heard – and seen – that families on the Transvaal border were sending their children inland to be safe. She'd heard about a place called Bronkhurstspruit that was set to be annihilated if the Zulus chose to attack there.
She had a sudden thought, and said, above the sudden sonic attack of Ons Was Goeie Kamerade from the band, asked
"Aunt Mariella, will the van Jaasveld family be here today?"
Her aunt considered this. She shook her head.
"Young Jan's here. He's in the team. So Anna's up in the stands somewhere. If I see her, I'll suggest she tags on in town with us. Not sure about the others, though."
Bekki frowned.
"If Anna's here, is Ellie likely to be? She said she doesn't want to be left alone with the old man. Reckon she'll have tagged onto Anna and young Jan?"
Mariella got the point quickly.
"I hope she has. If she's here, I'll find out. Want me to take her with us, or to send her down to you?"
"Please."
They listened to the music together. Hendricka winced.
"We were good comrades." she remarked, a propos of nothing.
Mariella considered this.
Bekki got the idea this was one of those songs, a glutinously sentimental thing about going to war and coming back. Some people in the crowd were singing along. She listened to the words and went "uggh."
Mariella grinned at her.
"Of course it's so sentimental you could catch diabetes from the sheet music." she said, in a low voice. "But. How do I explain this. When you've been in the front line and you get to come back again. You'll sing along because you did come back. And while you're singing it you'll remember the people who didn't. And you'll sing because you're grateful you got to come back. A hell of a lot of people in that grandstand went there and came back."
Mariella had been in a few fights, Bekki remembered.
"It's coming again." Hendricka said, in a resigned voice. "I can feel it. We'll be sending the young men off to war."
Bekki focused. She recognised some of the tunes.
Ons Vir Jou, Hovandalaand. Vondalaanderhart. De la Rey.
Martial anthems. Her witch senses twanged. It was almost as if at some level people were being prepared for what might come next. Maybe not consciously, she realised. But people are getting worried about renewed war with the Zulus…
And now the man with a megaphone was calling, in both languages
"Staan jou asseblief op vir die Volkslied. Please be upstanding for the National Anthem."
"Get this out of the way, and we can go." Aunt Mariella remarked. Mevrou Hendricka nodded assent. Bekki understood. When BOSS were present, you sang the Anthem and had to be seen doing so.
And she dutifully joined in. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that the umpires had called a halt to the Crockett match and the teams were standing at respectful attention.
National Anthem Stopped Play…
She wondered if there was a Rule of Crockett that covered this. (7)
The three women in the Medical Dugout joined in with the Anthem.
Uit die blou van onse Hemel,
Uit die diepte van ons See;
Oor ons ewige gebergtes,
Waar die kranse antwoord gee!
Bekki found herself stumbling on the fifth line, routinely going, as she had always done, to
Deur ons vêr-verlate vlaktes, met die kreun van ossewa….
And then she realised and checked herself. She listened.
Sounds the call to come together,
And united we shall stand,
Let us live and strive for freedom,
In our dear Howondaland!
Aunt Mariella grinned at her. Bekki grinned back, embarrassed. In all the years she'd had to sing the Volkslied, it had never once occurred to her that the National Anthem also had Morporkian lyrics. Nobody had ever sung the Morporkian version anywhere near her. No point, really.
"Local compromise." Mevrou Hendricka explained, afterwards. "You can sing whichever version you're more familiar with, that's allowed, but in this town, the first half of the verse is in Vondalaans, the second half is in Morporkian."
"One of the local arrangements that helps Bitterfontein work." Mariella agreed.
"Well, we'd better be going, then." Hendricka said, briskly. "That's the Duty over with and Oskar Verdraainer can see we are sufficiently patriotic. If we see Anna and the girl, we'll take them with us."
Ankh-Morpork, Saturday afternoon.
Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes was out shopping and spending quality time with her youngest daughter. It was also relaxation time, away from any sort of work or professional involvement. Just, for the moment, herself and Ruth. She valued this, and tried to force out intruding thoughts about one of the many puzzles life threw in the way of the Smith-Rhodes Management and Marketing Consultancy.
Claire had drawn her attention to some puzzling discrepancies in the audit of one of the accounts the SRMMC administered. As it related to Ponder's professional investments, Claire had considered it prudent to bring this to her employer's attention. Johanna had looked over the figures, agreed they didn't make sense, and it pointed to something going on that needed to be identified and dealt with. Keep investigating, please, and if anything new comes up, please keep me informed.
One track in her mind was worrying at this. It dealt with a scientific instruments manufacturing company that had at least begun from work done in the Thaumatalogical Park. It did good business with the wizarding and alchemical communities and was based on ideas ponder had had and which Johanna had negotiated patents on, knowing him to be too unworldly to do this for himself. It was only correct, she had pointed out to Mustrum Ridcully, that the man who had the ideas, which were becoming a revenue stream for the University, should be rewarded for them.
Claire had discovered that, seemingly, expensive raw materials were going into the factory at what seemed to be a higher rate than was apparently justified by the output. But any investigation was foundering on the fact nobody had the scientific or technomantic background to run a proper investigation. So whether it was outright theft, or bad management, or excessive wastage, was still a mystery. Or indeed if anything was going on at all. It was just all sort of vague, really.
And another track in Johanna's mind was thinking about flying elephants. She'd had to trap one not long ago from the roof of Small Gods. Vetinari had been acerbic.
She sighed. As if the hermit elephant in the third floor apartment hadn't been enough.
She put this firmly out of her mind. She'd trapped and retrieved and, in accordance with established zoological principles, had released the thing back in Howondaland. One of the Air Watch Feegles had crawstepped it to somewhere suitably remote. She recalled Olga Romanoff had gone very quiet and thoughtful and had admitted that she and Hanna von Strafenberg had been exploring possibilities.
Johanna suspected that Ankh-Morpork had not seen the last of flying elephants, but at least they were not her problem now. (8)
She had booked fitting appointments for herself and three daughters at Boggis. She winced at the expense, but if Famke was going to be part of the School Orchestra for a prestige concert at the Opera House, her proud family was going to be there. All of it. And that meant dressing girly for the night. All of us.
An uncharacteristic feminine thought admitted that this was going to be fun. It was nice to do occasionally. And female members of an orchestra, at a prestige concert attended by the social élite, also had to dress appropriately. Whether they wanted to or not.
Ethylene Glynnie had thoughtfully provided a style guide.
Johanna smiled.
Her middle daughter, if only for one night, was going to have to dress up and look the part. In all respects. Being appropriately dressed for all social situations was, she would remind Famke, part and parcel of being an Assassin.
Johanna had also made a block booking at Conina's. For four people, a mother and three daughters. Famke would be there even if she had to be delivered in handcuffs and leg irons. Bekki had promised to make the time and be there, if only for an afternoon. Johanna suspected her oldest daughter was looking forward to the sort of pampering a working Witch hardly ever got. She smiled. Conina would also deal with the family curse, split ends. Nothing a session with expertly wielded scissors wouldn't cure.
It would all cost, but she could afford it.
Idly, she wondered about bringing Shauna along too. There were going to be occasions in her professional life where her junior personal assistant would need to seriously glam up. It might be a nice thank-you for her work.
She looked over to where Ruth was asking intelligent questions in the artists' supply shop about the sort of enamels you would use on ceramics and how to seal them properly. She really wanted the brightest and most vivid colours possible, ones that wouldn't fade and if you have to refire them in a kiln, how do you do this, what's the process?
Johanna sighed resignedly. All this was going to cost. But it wasn't as if she couldn't afford it.
She considered the ongoing problems again. Expensive metals that couldn't be accounted for. Glamming up Famke, and telling her she did not have a choice. Appreciatively grinning at Evvie Glynnie's reasons for co-opting Famke into the orchestra.
At least her friend Thora is in the horn section,(9) Johanna thought. She's sensible. If her family can't make it on the night, we'll take her to dinner afterwards.
She frowned.
The business in Howondaland. Damn. Half-term's coming up for a week, this would be a good time to put the other thing into operation. I'll talk to Olga and Irena about transport. Make sure Mother and Father know and are onside with it. Also, clear it with Downey.
After a while, Johanna did the motherly thing of reaching for a purse and uncomplainingly paying for a daughter's art supplies. They weren't cheap, but she was fascinated by how those Rodinian stacking dolls would look after Ruth finished them. And as a bonus she was working out the manufacturing process too, how to do it. Which if the idea took off, would earn money on the back of an investment made now.
"Shall we go for coffee and a cake somewhere now, Ruth?" she asked.
Ruth smiled up.
"Yes please, mummy."
Johanna smiled.
She made arrangements for delivery of the art supplies and left with Ruth, enjoying the city on a pleasant March afternoon, heading for a café that had always been a favourite place for her and her daughters.
She was pleasantly surprised to find Ampie duPris and her daughter Famke in the café, and joined them. She had a suspicion that "adoptive big brother" applied, and found herself approving of this.
Got to get this out – it's been a while, I know – more to come!
(1) Two Raven had snarked about "only the very best musicians get into the School Orchestra. Plus drummers. Plus Kay."
(2) Donkeys everywhere have a streak of bloody-mindedness. The ones that had arrived in Howondaland with the first settlers had soon learnt to breed for serious "sod-you" or perhaps "Voetsaak, bliksem!" Several centuries of asinine natural selection later had weeded out the ones who were susceptible to things like lions and created a sub-species that could look at a lion or a hyena and bray a loud challenge of "do you feel lucky, pal?" The tendency of a frightened or annoyed donkey to bray loudly at the presence of an intruder was one of the reasons why the Lensen plaas kept a field full. At night they would be stabled in strategic locations around the plaas, each watching an avenue of approach to the important places. A combination of territorially-minded donkeys and ridgeback dogs were the Lensens' first line of defence against nocturnal intrusion.
(3) It had been pointed out that any international fixtures involving Llamedos should, so as to be seen to be scrupulously impartial, not have Llamedosian match officials. Referreeing and running the line had inevitably been opened up to suitably inclined priests of all faiths and nationalities.
(4) In his time a player and still a massive – and loud – enthusiast for the Game.
(5) Because nobody wants a delegation of Gods dropping in to make the point about freedom of conscience.
(6) Subject to licence and the understanding that on Sundays and Octedays, at least one BOSS agent would be in the congregation taking advantage of that constitutionally guaranteed freedom of conscience.
(7) The Morpork Crockett Club's compendious Rules of the Game of Crockett dies in fact have this to say under Law12: 7: 4: 2 (ii):
If the National Anthem of the nation wherein the Game is being played should be sounded in an official and binding capacity within 800 yards of the wicket, or else if the Game is being played on a National Day of significane to the host country, the Umpire will signal a cessation, the ball in play at that moment becomes Dead, and all players and match officials are required to display the appropriate degree of Respect for the duration of any playing of the Anthem, or consequent Two Minutes of Silence or playing of Taps, et c. Refer to schedule 12: 7: 4: 2: (ix) for a full list of appropriate Anthems and Circumstances. Play will resume at the discretion of the Umpire and local custom.
(8) I know. Catching up with events in The Price of Flight again. Tying the two stories together.
(9) Bass krumpelhorn, sousaphone, euphonium and tuba. Thora could play instruments of the general tuba family to a high standard, but as a young Dwarf with a big brass instrument, she tended to get lost behind the coiled tubing, and it gave observers the un-nerving visual aspect of a self-propelled and self-playing musical instrument coming at them. It was also accepted that playing an instrument at least as big and as heavy as she was could present special difficulties.
Notes Dump
The reserve bench for Players Sixteen to Twenty-Two, in the fifteen-a-side field of fiction writing, awaiting their call to come on if a first-fifteen idea gets donnered
Reading the current Fortean Times (FT411, Oct-Nov 2021).
A short about naturalist and wildlife man Paul Botriell, who spent a working life getting up close to big cats (leopards and cheetahs) and who died after coming off second in an encounter with South African wildlife.
Not a scratch from the big cats.
What killed him was a wasp.
A single sting from a South African wasp.
Ag, man.
Still looking for info as to the how and the why and what the Hells sort of a bliksem gogga of a wasp this was.
Also noting Botriell was a native Rhodesian (possibly of the sort who will never call the place "Zimbabwe") but died while at work in SA. He may be a personality to write into the tales –
"By the way, Johanna. We've got this oke from Smith-Rhodesia down here, goes up-bush to work with the wildlife. He's mad keen on leopards. Reckon he could be somebody you'd get along with."
Also watching the movie Die Spook van Uniondale. (about the Maria Roux haunting in the Western Cape of SA from a chapter or so back). Gods damn. Those flat empty fields with the terraced and possibly vine-clad hills in the background…. Exactly as I see the Turnwise Caarp….
The Dutch thing: "Vlaai" (sweet-filled pies) and Beschuit, which look for all the world like Saffie rusks. Maybe this is where the rusk thing came from. Vlaai also suggests melktert. Also currently listening to a TV debate about how to pronounce stroupwaffel. Bloke on TV is saying "this is a London biscuit" because that's the only place he's ever seen them...
Also, in South Korea, a deranged/obsessive/lunatic fan who stalks the pop group/celebrity of desire is called a Saesang Fan. Now there's an Agatean name to use. In North Korea, I guess the ideal is to create twenty-five million Saesangs who are obsessive about one particular Celebrity…
The research you have to do… learning about parts of the orchestra, trying to find out more about how an orchestra might learn and rehearse and polish up a previously unperformed work (unperformed by them, that is). How do you get what might be over a hundred musicians performing a complex work from scratch?
It's a percussion section, split into pitched (tubular bells, xylophones, et c) and unpitched instruments (drums) with musicians doubling up on instruments – one person might play bells and cymbals and other metal clashy things and switch between them, for instance. So one player has multiple instruments. (Might mean a bit of reality has to be fudged later in the tale – Rule of Funny)
Reckoning that each section might rehearse independently and then come together with the rest once it's got its own role straight.
And thanks to reader KsandraMalan for info on the prehearsal process for percussionists! Not sure how to incorporate this but I'll do my best.
Strange andd hitherto un-known (to me) fact: the saxaphone may be made of brass, but because it has a reed in it, where it is used orchestrally it is counted as woodwind. so as a sax player, Ampie would have to be told to change teams. I wonder what might happen if an orchestral role calls for saxaphone and trumpet, and the sax player has to double up?
Player Twenty-Three – die Bokke makes us one!