“Next!” trumpeted through the doorway. My eleven-year-old self nervously entered the choir master’s rooms. “Have you ever sung in a choir?” “Ah, er … no” He bellowed ‘next’, signaling the end of my audition and any choral opportunities!
During school holidays, my sister and I continued to sing soprano duets to all of the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, the popular musicals – South Pacific, My Fair Lady, Oklahoma, Fidler on the Roof. Dad bought us a folder, full of the lyrics. He often joined us, tentative inputs, moving to preferred whistling or humming accompaniment, as we sang.
And we did – in the garden, in the car, doing the dishes, at the beach! One or other of us would pitch a note at the other, a taunt to correctly guess which tune was next, sometimes needing a second, even a third note, and then away we went!
Back at school, as the years rolled on, I kept my disappointment to myself, consoled in the knowledge that anyone singing in the school choir was a ‘wuss’! I didn’t need any more distinctions – my socialist parentage had already provided enough ammunition for my comrades at this privileged institution.
Sundays came around and I secretly revelled in the hymn-singing, often inserting my own descants, blocking out the assembled school as they heaved their way through the 23rd Psalm. I had my eyes and ears fixed on the choristers, two rows either side of the aisle, in the Apse, junior’s singing soprano and alto, backed with tenors and bass singers drawn from senior school, all kitted in red and white outfits.
There were special days – Saint’s feast days, Easter and Christmas, that were just ethereal – the Te Deum Landaus, Handel’s Messiah, Bach’s St Matthew’s Passion opened unknown joys.
In sixth form, my final year, I finally had the self-confidence to throw off my fears. I joined the choir. What a year – I matriculated, but of more import, I had professional voice training. I was intimately involved in making those harmonies – with my left, right, and with those across the aisle!
I suppose it was a case of better late, than never, although I knew that missing those pre-pubescent years of training would restrict my capacities, forever! I went on to occasionally sing in amateur rep musical theatre, a few solo performances, choirs, folk club gigs, I often sang in the car, by myself.
In moments of quiet, idle contemplation, I still wonder how those shoes of Luciano might have felt, to have taken a leaf from the pages of Jose or Placido, Andrea Bocelli. Ahh – braggadocio, don’t be silly! Briefly, a dream offers its own unchallengeable reality.
I am regularly brought up with the never-ceasing angst of ‘what if…’, why hadn’t I protested, maybe just sung a few lines from South Pacific, kicked the Choirmaster in the groin, demanding to be heard! “If I could turn back time.”
I listen intently for early signs that my grandchildren might have a voice! That’s dangerous, careful!