THE SPICE OF LIFE

The show was about to start; a concert in which my daughter at both the planning and performance stages was heavily involved. It had been my intention to enjoy this with a friend, but sadly she was unwell and as a result, there was an empty seat beside me, which, given my love for music did not upset me unduly.  I glanced at the programme not recognising the names, save of course the chief accompanist, Sally. At twenty-five, Sally was shaping up to lead a second life; but that I mean her day job was in reception, but she did a few music gigs some evenings. I had done the same a few moons past, I understood both her love and her need for music.

 There I was quite settled, complete with my favourite confectionary indulgence. My thoughts were interrupted when a man approached me asking if I would mind if he sat in the vacant seat beside me. He walked with the aid of a stick, so I moved up one allowing him the easier access. He looked familiar but with the number of people I dealt with these days the chances of my knowing him were slim.  Still, I could not get rid of the idea, that I had seen him before. He wore Old Spice a men’s fragrance not often seen or worn. It was popular in my young and possibly his young day, one friend wore it but Nah it would not be him, or could it?

My thoughts went back: rehearsals, lessons, gigs, banter; Old Spice. Eisteddfods, duets, nights without a companion, but you could still ask Old Spice: my giving up too easily and in the corner, Old Spice was ready with a word of advice, heaps of encouragement, an offer of assistance or good stiff drink Good old Bill.

Thank you so much.” he said “I’m Bill, he continued “Bill Young” he was seated now. I did not know whether to weep or jump up and down ecstatically.

“I’m Mary.” I said “Mary York.” I smiled letting him see that there were rings on my left ring finger, as I placed my bag under the chair. Who was I kidding Brian had been gone a long time, he too had a pukka voice, and like my mother before me, I melted at the sound of a gorgeous voice, spoken or otherwise!

“It’s shaping up to be a good evening,” said Bill as he read the programme.

“My daughter Sally is one of the accompanists” I was showing off now, I knew it and had no intention of hiding it. She was all I had and Brian, bless him would have been proud of her too.

“Oh, how lovely, yes my son is performing tonight,” Bill said with pride. He smiled. I looked away embarrassed. That was his smile.

The curtains opened and it appeared the concert was to start. Sally was going to be busy as one of the two accompanists for the evening, but it would be good. The audience mentally prepared for the Master of Ceremonies. Phil was known to me; a right old duffer who loved the limelight. I looked at Bill and his facial expression spoke volumes. Eventually perhaps after much feet shuffling and, a rustle of silver paper that once held confectionary, Phil toddled off, allowing the programme to go ahead

Sally came on stage smiled shyly and sat at the piano. The first act was a group of children a little nervous but equally, quite excited. You would not expect their voices to be a grand although there were a few true notes among those who sang with more gusto than a tune. Who was I to complain? my voice was now getting old, but having done some singing as a youngster, these events always cheered me. Clearly, Bill enjoyed them too his eyes never left the youngsters faces.  

This item was followed by a trio singing “Three Little Maids from School.” None of them looked young enough to be school-age nor young hopefuls for weddings, but The Mikado was always one of my favourite Gilbert and Sullivan operettas and it brought back memories… especially of Bill.

He and I were students together, our singing teacher had been professional once, but her ability to combine teaching with a "home away from home" environment was well known. Mrs Day had trained abroad, had some success, and once her voice showed signs of overuse, she taught back in her home country. That was where I met Bill. Bill Young who wore Old Spice, who was a perfect gentleman, spoke beautifully, sang tenderly, and who could sightread without having to be prompted with the first note. How that annoyed me! I was okay with the first note and muddled my way through.  Not Bill. Tenor part of the Messiah’s Hallelujah chorus or the chorus of “We are gentlemen of Japan” also from the Mikado, Bill could pick it up and sing as though he had known it for years. He chided me once

“What’s wrong with you Mary? It’s easy:  g minim, f quaver … In your favourite key signature." I smiled at the memory.

Penny for them?” Bill smiled, as I looked sheepishly “back at May Day’s living room, were you?”

He knew full well where my mind was, he had not changed all that much. As though to alleviate doubts He laughed

“You are Mary Anderson, of old, are you not?” I nodded, remembering the nickname he used for her.

 “I thought it was you,” he said clasping my hand.

“I wondered about you.” I said “you still wear Old Spice.” another smile

Suddenly a young man walked on stage.

“Hi My name is Tom Young.”

 Talk about two peas in a pod. Tom was the spitting image of the Bill Young I recalled.

“I would like to sing a favourite of mine. Those like me who have Scots blood will know My Ain Folk

“Far Frae My Hame I wander but still my thoughts return.” I started to cry, Tom sang like Bill, he spoke like Bill, he smiled like Bill. It was uncanny.

Bill and I were never an item, but we were close friends. I looked at Bill when the performance was over and the interval began, I had to say something

“He’s your son, Bill, through and through.”  A part of me had glued together

Bill smiled, “Thank you, Mary.  I understand Tom would like to ask Sally out; would you object?”

“Not a bit.” I replied. “in any case, if I did, try stopping Sally…”

“Would you object if I did you same and asked you out?” The impish smile was back, it had not changed.

“Oh, Mr Young I…think there will be a bit of catching up to do.”

That was an understatement.