Alfredians A newsletter for King Alfred School Alumni Autumn 2012 Concert Going am going to a concert. Come with me. On second thoughts, don’t. There are not two Ipeople in the world that I would invite to a concert with me, although I might endure the presence of perhaps half a dozen. It is Monday. Staff-meeting. Long agenda – permits, stages, roofs, afternoon time tables, and, slight consolation, tea. Tea till five; then minutes of the last meeting; at last we begin on the real business. Time draws on. Six, half past six, seven. I must go. I do. Down the hill, home. Taking my ticket and the Times, I make for the Underground and board the first Charing Cross train. Hampstead – the deepest underground. The Queen's Hall in 1911 (Sir Edward Elgar and the London Symphony Orchestra) Belsize Park, for board-residence. Chalk Farm, sadly changed. Camden Town, for the been there some time, hard at work. Now movement, just a calm, steady gaze. Now it Zoo (and Camden Town). Euston. Warren they come in groups, the ‘cellos, violas, is his turn. From the first note all doubt is Street. Goodge Street. second violins, first violins. The leader comes gone; here is the master; all will be well. A I get out. Left out of the station, left in last to take his little round of applause. perfect first movement. The second, with its again, down Tottenham Street. Pawn brokers The stage is set. The curtains on the left are accompaniment of horns and muted strings, and dress agencies. The Scala. A few parted. The conductor steps up to his place. a thing of infinite beauty. A short cadenza children let off fireworks in the street. On past He bows left, right, little still bows. The leads into the irresistible Rondo which takes the Middlesex Hospital, past the home of deeper ones later, when the audience have its triumphant course to the tremendous Amami, past “Pussy’s Butcher,” a wretched earned them. A volley of coughs, a last rush finish. little shop, about eight feet by three, with a of late-corners, an imploring left hand A lull, then thunderous applause. Again disgusting selection of meat calmly upraised; the overture is launched. Leonora, and again he is recalled; always he comes displayed. Through Union Street, across No. 3. Perfectly played. grave and modest; no boastfulness, no Great Titchfield Street (they are holding a There is a short interval. Much scorn shows in his face. At last he is market here), along Ridinghouse Street. Not conversation. I am aware of the green of the allowed to leave. After all, even Kreisler far now. A door marked “Private – Artists hall with the contrasting colours of the must not be allowed to shorten the time Only.” The great man is leaving his taxi. audience. Only five unshaded lights below available for a smoke and a drink. Crowds Well do I know that kindly face. A smile, the organ to irritate one. Even they will be swarm out. and he is gone. Door No. 6, Block D. forgotten after ten bars. I remember the I too. I must go back. I cannot hear any I am in the area to-night, in the cheap, great ones I have heard there, the singers, more with that music still in my ears, that but not too nasty seats. Luckily I find a place ‘cellists, pianists; the noblest orchestras and sight still in my eyes. Back at a great rate. I in the front row. Before me are the stalls, the choirs, the most famous violinists. Yet none see little. A heap of paper where late the back row, where late corners will be least of them more wonderful than the one I am market was held, still there are children in frequent. Firmly I occupy the whole of my soon to hear. None to compare with Kreisler the street, figures in the shadows, and that allotted space. It is no joke sharing a seat all playing Beethoven. night-attraction, the fish saloon. The the evening. Not long ago a man fell asleep A tremendous reception awaits him. It is Hampstead train. on my shoulder and ever since I have been good to see him again, good to know that The journey is short. Out and up that careful to avoid somnolent neighbours. To- the feast I have promised myself for the last long, long lift. One must have air; the cool night my companions seem pretty safe; six months is actually at hand. breeze on the hill is always fresh. Up a side neither is unaccompanied, and, heaven be The orchestra begins well. This is not the street to miss the traffic, through the shadows, praised, neither has a programme. I go on night for slackness. With all the confidence past inviting steps and alleys. A flower falls with the Times. I have nearly got to the news in the world one can but hope that he will at my feet, blood-red. From some window now, but I must put it by and look about me. surmount the difficulties of his opening box, doubtless. No time for that now. On to No one that I know. Many familiar faces, but passage in octaves, the ruin of all comers. the pond; then down the hill, home. no one likely to come across and say There he stands, biding his time; his left R. something unnecessary. hand holds his coat; the matchless fiddle The players filter in; the drummer has hangs down from his right. Not a From The Alfredian 1931 advantage of much of what it had to offer. Joyce Rathbone Joyce was an independent, self-reliant, formidable woman who came from a line of 9 Feburary 1929 – strong, feisty left-wing women. Both her 19 December 2010 mother Nellie and her aunt, Rose Cohen, were members of the British Communist Party. Nellie also worked at one stage as Joyce Rathbone, talented musician and secretary to Sylvia Pankhurst. When Joyce extraordinarily gifted teacher, died at the discovered that her Aunt Rose, along with Highgate Nursing Home at the age of 81. her husband, had been executed by Stalin The following commemoration is an edited in one of his purges in 1938, Joyce text from the humanist funeral conducted by decided to track down their son, her first Jill Satin and is published with the permission cousin. The boy had been put in a of Joyce’s goddaughter, Pippa Harris. orphanage after his mother's execution and Nellie had lost touch with him. With Literature, music, left wing politics, art, and characteristic determination and only a theatre had a huge influencing role in, and smattering of Russian, Joyce travelled to became lifelong interests for Joyce. Music Moscow in the 1990s and found him, his was her abiding passion and around this children and grandchildren. Pippa Harris remembers, “Joyce was she built her professional career. She played Joyce went on to be a Communist, one of those life-enhancing people whose both the piano and violin. Following her reading the Morning Star and the Islip intellect and passion influences everything training at the Royal Academy of Music, she Newsletter, was a member of CND and and everyone around them...” She had a became a successful concert pianist, probably went on some of the Aldermaston vast book collection, including a collection including solo concerts at the Wigmore Hall marches. There is an amusing story of when of Jane Austen, who was her almost and a solo BBC Haydn recording. She also the census was taken in 2001, when the favourite author. Joyce also wrote herself played in a celebrated duo (piano and interviewer asked Joyce what paper she and had a children’s book, Martin Bosey, cello) with Joan Dickson and later, the two read, she replied “the Morning Star.” Not published in 1979. women set up a summer music school at finding it on the long list, the census officer In the late 1960s she met the cellist Joan Westonbirt. suggested ticking the Daily Star instead… Dickson and recognised a kindred spirit. you can imagine Joyce’s firm and clear They became firm friends, taught, played oyce was born on Feb 9th 1929 in response to that outrageous and ignorant and worked together. Joan maintained that London. Her then (unmarried) mother suggestion. In fact she stood firm until it was Joyce made her rethink almost everything JNellie had had an affair with the written in. she did. She once said of Joyce, “Her renowned Irish novelist Liam O'Flaherty. Liam Joyce was a woman of many complex extraordinary intellectual grasp of music has was married at the time and Joyce sides; she could be private about her been most beneficial, not only to me – discovered many years later that she had a innermost thoughts, although she formed and because I'm more intuitive – but also to my half sister, Pegeen. held strong opinions and was at times teaching.” Joyce's step father, Mr Hugo Rathbone, outspoken in her views. When one got past Joyce’s relationship with Joan, both was by all accounts a gentle, and kind man her direct speech and more than occasional personal and professional, was without and it was his financial support which rudeness she was a great and loyal friend. doubt the most significant in her life. They allowed Joyce to buy her own house, No. Her greatest asset was that she was great spent many happy summers together at 31 Chepstow Place, in Notting Hill, in the company, often irreverent, outspoken but full Dartington Summer School of Music.