Margaret's High Notes

By Ishbel Moore

As Registrar for the Parkland Chorale, 69 year-old Margaret Collins is at the sign-up table when two suspicious-looking men put their names down to sing the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Little does she know that they will challenge her views, turn her world upside down, and one will steal her heart.
Margaret has raised two children mostly on her own, worked hard, and scrimped for every penny. A long-time soprano in the choir, she has held executive positions for that organization for years. But the Ninth requires sopranos to hit seventy-five high As, and Margaret is already feeling the strain, not only of her choir obligations and family issues, but of the loneliness in her heart.
Ward Banfield (63) only agreed to sign up to sing in the Parkland Chorale because his favorite client, Homer, seemed determined be a part of the great Beethoven’s masterpiece. Ward is immediately attracted to Margaret, and decides that performing with her choir could be interesting. Homer suffers from mental illness and is homeless, which causes no end of problems for Ward, and eventually for Margaret. A Social Worker, Ward is heir to a massive fortune, and spent his youth as a spoiled rich kid, who has turned his energies to helping the needy.
Against the backdrop of beautiful classical music, the trials and joys of family life and friendship, aging, and the possibility of romance, Margaret struggles to come to grips with the challenges and changes before her. Can she and Ward must overcome their differences, focus on each other’s strengths, and allow their love to flourish amidst the low and high notes of life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ishbel Moore
• Release date: Dec 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9780994963383

Ishbel Moore

Ishbel Moore was born in Glasgow, Scotland and immigrated to Canada with her parents and siblings in 1967. A prolific writer, Ishbel has published more than a dozen novels through varying publishers and in several languages. The genres span time travel to medical issues to medieval fantasy romance. Her list of credits include multiple magazine articles and short stories. Ishbel has traveled across Canada hosting writing workshops and bringing writers together in rural communities. She has been the National President for the Canadian Authors Association in the past, as well as holding positions in other provincial and national writing associations. She is also a YW-YMCA Woman of Distinction and a three-time breast cancer survivor. Music is another passion. She is a trained singer, and plays the piano. Among her achievements in this area, she cites being the conductor for the Back Pew Boys Male Choir and the Octavia Ladies Choir among her greatest. A retired medical transcriptionist, she is married, with three grown children, a daughter-in-law and two grandsons. She lives on an acreage north of Winnipeg, Canada, with her beloved horses, dog, cats, chickens and sundry wildlife.For a list of Ishbel's published books, please notice this can be found below in the 'Interview', and on the end pages of her books.

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MARGARET’S HIGH NOTES

Copyright © 2023

Ishbel Moore

Thank you for purchasing Margaret’s High Notes. This book remains the copyrighted property of Ishbel Moore and may not be redistributed. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to buy their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locales and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual settings, events or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Canadian Cataloging in Publication Data

Margaret’s High Notes / Moore, Ishbel

ISBN: 978-0-9949633-8-3

Cover art, formatting, layout and design

by Richard Koreen

image sources:

front cover - treble clef - pixabay.com 8381326

RPB logo - personal photograph

MARGARET’S HIGH NOTES

ISHBEL MOORE

Published by:

Rocky Point Books

Box 424 Gimli MB CA R0C 1B0

[e-mail]

author may be contacted through the publisher

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In this story, you will read that there are 75 high A notes for the sopranos to sing in the choral section of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. To make matters worse, an awful lot of these are sustained, loud, and louder, for many bars. Then, there is a decrescendo, a getting quieter, but you have to keep on pitch with those same high As. This is quickly followed by a crescendo, growing louder to fortissimo (very loud). In the Ninth, the sopranos have to follow this pattern about 18 times, with different passages between. Each time they return to the High As, the notes have to sound as though they are as fresh and pure as the first time. And it is sung in German, quite often at a brisk clip, and singers must spit out those words, crisp. The other sections of the choir have to exert just as much energy and control, with some very tricky entrances to execute.

Below is a link to a fabulous delivery of Beethoven’s Ninth (Fourth Movement). Please considering taking the time to listen to it (about 20 minutes).

Here is the link on YouTube at the time of writing:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ChygZLpJDNE

Beethoven Symphony No. 9 - Mvt. 4 - Barenboim/West-Eastern Divan Orchestra - 2014

BOOKS by ISHBEL MOORE

Fiction

Summer of the Hand

The Medal

Branch of the Talk Teeth

Dolina May

Dolina’s Grad

Dolina’s Decision

Xanthe’s Pyramid

Daughter

Kitchen Sink Concert

Annilea

Fighting for Sunshine

Blood Tapestry

To Find a White Knight

Believing

Sixteen Thorns

Cupid’s Song

Non-Fiction

History of the Winnipeg Philharmonic Choir (75 years)

THANK YOU

Heartfelt gratitude to my piano and voice teachers, and all the wonderful singers with whom I shared performances over the years

CHAPTER ONE

~A THURSDAY EVENING IN JANUARY~

Would the red light ever change to green?

Margaret flexed her fingers to relax her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and peered beyond the wipers sweeping across the windshield. Wind whipped the falling snow into mini-tornadoes and flung them at her car. Streetlights held fast against the January storm, but lost their brightness.

Maybe, she thought, the worry that fueled her impatience was increased by the time. 11:45pm. Much too late for anyone to be out on a night such as this. She’d been forced to deviate from her usual route due to an accident at a major intersection. Between that and the Parkland Chorale executive meeting running overtime post-rehearsal, she now found herself in the least desirable part of Parkland City.

A bar and an all-night coffee shop stood out by way of signs in the shape of a martini glass including an olive on a stir stick and ‘Eat Here’. The bright blue cross of Saints Mission blinked from the roof of a run-down building. Two figures huddled in a doorway, and another dug through a garbage bin.

They must be freezing!

She double-checked that the automatic door locks truly kept her safe, and held her gloved hands to the heat vents to warm them. She had just enough time to push a CD into her player before the traffic lights changed to green. While Petula Clark sang Downtown, Margaret carefully applied her foot to the gas pedal. The tires spun.

A shape appeared before her. She slammed on the brakes. The headlights revealed a haggard face beneath a battered tartan shawl tucked into a torn parka, adorned with a necklace of tinsel. Margaret believed it was a woman who glared at her before continuing the struggle to push a shopping cart loaded with who-knows-what while hampered by snowdrifts.

Vehicles slid to a stop behind and beside Margaret. One truck driver opened his window and started shouting obscenities, but the woman kept walking until she had reached the other side.

Margaret began breathing normally again. Petula’s words bounced around the interior as Margaret inched her car ahead and up to a safe speed.

I think there’s just too much irony in that song for me tonight. Margaret pushed the button to change tracks on her CD of The Greatest Hits of Great Women Singers. Dusty Springfield started her mournful You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, and Margaret belted the chorus out right along with her.

Her memory jumped to the summer day when her fiancé became her husband, and promised to love her until parted by death. Had that really been almost a half century in the past? And the divorce…had those irreconcilable differences been aired an incredible forty years ago? At that parting, neither she nor Greg could be accused of cheating, any form of cruelty or neglect, just plain old disinterest in each other’s wants or needs. The whole process had been the most amicable and fair negotiations both lawyers stated they’d ever drawn up. The cost was minimal since Margaret and Greg already knew who wanted what and which items were precious to whom. Despite any unspoken resentment that might linger, this mutual respect carried them through many years of co-parenting for Christopher and Natalie. She had been sincere in her congratulations when he remarried. Geraldine—Gerry—was a lovely person, with two girls from her own first marriage, Veronica and Lynelle.

Margaret never regretted her decision to take up the role of a single woman, except when she saw members of the choir who were couples. In her mind’s eye she could see them arrive together, learn together, practice together, perform together, go home together. Among them were Dr. and Mrs. George Wedlake. There had been a scandal when he left his wife of many years to take up with and eventually marry Mona, a much younger beautician or esthetician, less than a year after she joined the chorale’s altos. Then there was Barry and Helen Everts who’d been singing together in a church choir since they were teenagers and successfully auditioned for the Chorale after his time in the Armed Forces. She couldn’t dismiss the obvious affection shown for each other by Blake Jones and Lucas Malic who’d met in the bass section. She’d watched carpools of singers arrive and depart in chattering gaggles.

And some lonely little string in her heart would twinge.

Dolly Parton’s Love Is Like a Butterfly now graced the air.

Margaret ejected the CD and turned off the radio. She concentrated on navigating the car around the corner of her road where snow had taken over the lane, and crawled between the small red brick walls that outlined the beginning of the apartment block driveway. She pushed the control for the garage overhead doors and rolled into the dry warm space with a thankful sigh.

She took the elevator to the seventh floor, unlocked her door. The warmth of her apartment wrapped around her as she dropped her hat, scarf and gloves onto the small table, took off her boots, and hung up her coat. She left her music case beside the chair she always sat on to take or make phone calls, and listen to recorded messages.

Natalie had called at 8:05pm: Hey Mom. Finally got home from work. Jordan got a job working at the Dollar Arena while he figures out about university. He can tell you all about that himself. Owen has a hockey tournament this weekend, but it will likely be done by Sunday afternoon. He can drive to your place now. I’ve been up to my ears in marking essays. Some middle school kids have high expectations for the future, and some think we’re doomed. Troy and I are looking forward to seeing everybody on Sunday. Oh…now I realize why you’re not home. It's the first Thursday of the month and you have choir practice and an executive meeting after. See you Sunday.

How could Natalie’s perfectly normal words carry an edge, sarcasm perhaps?

Margaret spoke to the phone as if it were Natalie. How come everything you say to me sounds as though you’re only telling me because you have to?

Christopher rarely phoned. Divorced and childless, he simply always showed up for the monthly Sunday dinners with coleslaw and an unwillingness to talk, letting big sister, Natalie, take the lead. He said accountants never had anything exciting to report anyhow.

He’d reached out at 9:45pm: Hi, I’m sorry for the late call, but at least it’s before ten. I’ll be bringing a lady for dinner this week. Okay, bye.

Margaret was more than intrigued. Chris hadn’t brought anyone home since he was nineteen.

She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone and plugged it into the charger. Her daughter insisted she have it with her at all times but Margaret announced that the phone would always be off during choir times, so best if they just used the land line those nights.

She crossed the room intending to draw the drapes against the raging blizzard, happy she had nowhere to be the next day. The darkness reflected her tiredness. Her shoulder-length graying brown hair needed a trim. Should she consider coloring it? Or perhaps a different style, one that might add more roundness to her face that appeared to be getting gaunt as the years passed? Certainly something had to be done before the Beethoven performance in April. That was four months away so if she didn’t like the cut, her hair would’ve grown back by then, and any dye would be washed out.

What a night! Who knew educated, grown-up people who shared a love of music could get riled up to that degree? Believing their choice for future concert music is the right and only answer. Audiences were shrinking, there was no debating that. Membership in the choir itself had dropped off in recent years. The long-standing relationship with the orchestra was noticeably strained.

The ever-popular Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony would come to the rescue, and put voices in the ranks and backsides in the seats. Choirs from in and around the city had been invited, from churches and communities, universities, and even high schools. An ad had been placed in the newspaper. No auditions required. She hoped some good sopranos would come out of the woodwork.

Another good thing that Beethoven would bring was Saturday morning practices. There’d be no more Thursday sessions until next season.

Margaret’s age settled heavily on her shoulders. At 69, she was getting a bit old to do justice to all those high A notes. There would be grinding orchestra-choir rehearsals for several evenings leading up to performance. Her voice would be strained and tired by opening night. Her feet would swell from too much standing, or her knees would ache from getting up and down every few minutes as the conductor desired. All the difficult meetings were becoming too much.

Margaret closed the curtains with a sigh. Could she quit the choir? Her life had been full of marvelous music and wonderful people. Perhaps she could modify her involvement. This would eliminate being out late on a terrible night.

I hope that street person found shelter from the storm.

~THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY~

Snowplows cleared the roads and side streets all day Friday and into the wee hours of Saturday. As a result, travel to Faith Community Church at 8am proved fairly uneventful, and Margaret got there early. She’d volunteered to meet all newcomers and answer any questions about seating and rehearsal expectations.

Recently built in the middle of Parkland City, the huge Faith Community Church boasted an extravagant sanctuary, whereas the Chorale’s regular practices were held in the rehearsal room of the concert hall, which would be too small. Instead of pews, notorious for being heavy and mostly immovable, Faith had stacks of comfortable chairs that could be placed as needed. Not one, but two baby grand pianos were available at the front, and the pipes of the massive organ reached to a ceiling painted to represent the heavens.

Margaret hung her coat in the long narrow cloakroom and removed her snow-covered boots. As she slipped on her comfortable flats she heard a male voice behind her.

This the Beethoven practice place?

She turned to find two men, with toques pulled low on their foreheads. One had a full shaggy beard, and the growth on the other’s face was neatly combed. Yes, it is. Are you here to sing?

The shaggy beard said, Yes.

I shouldn’t form opinions on first impressions but he has the most intense and almost frightening blue eyes!

She smiled. How did you find out about us?

Newspaper, he replied. You still wanting singers?

We sure are. She led them to a table and pointed to sign-up forms. Name, address, phone, email, and which voice you sing, please.

Margaret watched the men write. Shaggy beard’s name was Homer Ess and he sang tenor. The second man was Ward Bee, also a tenor.

You haven’t supplied any email or phone numbers, she stated. How will we be able to let you know about any cancellations and such?

The men exchanged uneasy glances, allowing Margaret a chance to notice their slightly disheveled appearance. Ward’s faded jeans covered scuffed but sturdy boots. Homer’s track shoes were full of holes, hardly suitable for winter.

He said, Where’s the tenor section?

Just at that moment, Detlef Schmidt walked in. Margaret waved him over. Detlef, this is Ward and Homer. They’re tenors, just like you. Would you show them the ropes for the first little while, please?

Detlef looked down his nose. Come to this table to pick up your scores.

Homer moved away with Detlef, but Ward leaned closer to Margaret. She liked the green flecks in his eyes and how he smiled as he looked at her. A whiff of his sandalwood and spices cologne reached her as he bent forward.

Here’s a phone number, but please know that messages are passed on maybe fifty percent of the time, so… He let the sentence hang while he scribbled numbers onto the page before catching up with Detlef.

Margaret could hear the conversation between them. All scores are numbered at the top right, said Detlef in an exaggerated friendly tone. You put your name and score number on this list. We’re each accountable for returning a score and for its condition. Ditto if you need a black folder.

Homer and Ward bent their heads together and whispered, with some animation, after which Homer said, Okay, both.

What church do you gentlemen sing at? Detlef asked while he documented the numbers of the scores and folders. What training do you have?

Homer tensed. We wanna sit down now.

Margaret was then distracted by a stream of new faces, registering, and giving instructions. Whenever she looked towards the tenor section, Ward and Homer were sitting quietly, the snow melt from their boots forming dirty puddles on the floor. They had been abandoned by Detlef who preferred the company and attention of stately, blond contralto, Mathilde Koehler.

Within a half-hour, most of the chairs were full of nattering choristers. Some flipped through the pages of Beethoven’s Ninth. Others introduced themselves to anyone around them they didn’t know, while old friends chatted and laughed.

Kathelina Swift-Martens took her place at the keyboard of one of the pianos and spoke with Mario Cassavetes, the orchestra conductor. He was in attendance just to ensure enough singers had signed on. His handsome South American features made up for his short stature. His musical brilliance excused his brusque attitude. Kathelina remained poised as Cassavetes thumbed through pages and told her what to do and how to do it.

Tanner Sansom, Parkland Chorale’s regular conductor, arranged his music on the stand and clapped his hands. The rumble of voices continued. He clapped again, faster, louder, but still with no result. Margaret supposed that a slightly built older man might not command much respect from anyone who didn’t know who he was, and most of these new singers did not.

Detlef whistled and shouted, People! People! Attention please. We’re going to get started now. Quiet.

While Tanner thanked everyone for relinquishing their Saturday mornings to Beethoven for the next few months, Margaret counted how many names graced the sign-up sheets. One hundred and fifty-nine. Twenty-two were first sopranos, thirty-one were second sopranos, forty-six were altos. For men, the baritones numbered twenty and the basses counted eighteen. That meant Ward and Homer were included in the ranks of twenty-two tenors.

Decent numbers. We should make a wonderful joyful noise.

Margaret took her chair in the front row of the first sopranos and listened to Tanner discuss the finer points of the Ninth.

But she had the unsettling sensation of eyes burrowing into the back of her head.

When she stood with everyone else to begin vocal warm-ups, she peered over her shoulder to find Homer staring at her. Ward elbowed him to break his concentration, then sent an apologetic smile her way.

~LATER THAT SAME DAY~

Margaret shifted her phone to the other ear. She could envision Tassa sitting at her oval kitchen table, in her tiny house, smoking what was probably her tenth cigarette that day. As friends since elementary school, Margaret and Tassa had spent countless hours at one kitchen table or another, doing homework or playing board games, figuring out boys, solving their family issues and the world’s problems.

Over the years, Margaret consumed chocolate digestive biscuits when they were together, while Tassa puffed on her du Mauriers—habits since they were eighteen and no-one could tell them what to do because they were adults, finally.

The left ear didn’t seem as natural, so she returned to the right side. The small slice of silence gave her a chance to glance up at the very first photograph taken of her with Tassa that now graced the foyer wall. John Fulton, Margaret’s father had owned an old ‘Brownie’ camera which seemed to permanently hang from a strap around his neck. He was always taking pictures to send back home to England, and even supplied Tassa with a few to mail to her relatives in Romania.

His favorite was taken when they were six years-old, side by side on a swing barely big enough for one. He said he loved the difference in their coloring and had the print blown up as much as possible. Margaret with her slim stature, blond hair, blue-eyes, peaches and cream British looks contrasted with the taller and more robust Tassa’s darker complexion, brooding deep brown eyes, and waist length ringlets.

Below that hung a more recent, professionally taken portrait of Margaret and Tassa when they’d turned sixty-five. Gray hair, crows’ feet and brow furrows could not overshadow the sparkle in their eyes and the wideness of their smiles.

You still there? Tassa’s voice brought her back to the present.

I tell you, Tassa, it was very uncomfortable.

Maybe this Homer thought he knew you or that you looked like someone. Did you confront the guy?

I was going to, but at break I was busy answering questions and helping with the coffee. After practice they were nowhere to be found.

Hmm, said Tassa. Did Detlef have anything to report? You did ask him to keep an eye. Mind you, over the years you’ve not had many kind words about Herr Schmidt.

Yes, well, now it gets more interesting. Margaret took a deep breath. I talked to Detlef after practice. He said that Homer never once looked at the music and sounded like he’d had training. Had the whole thing memorized. The other man, Ward, had his nose stuck in the music and looked a bit lost sometimes. But then again, many people looked lost today.

"That is interesting, isn’t it?" Tassa blew out some cigarette smoke with a loud whoosh, a sound Margaret was very familiar with.

Margaret sighed. Who knows? They might not even show again, and Detlef will have to send out a search party for the music and folders. It happens more than you might think. Anyway, this Homer and Ward seem harmless enough. One of the things I love about the Chorale. It’s a great equalizer. We have surgeons and janitors. Who are we to turn away anybody who can sing?

Tassa snorted. Changing the subject…monthly Sunday supper approaches. Everyone going to show up?

Yes. And apparently Christopher is bringing a lady friend.

A lady friend, parroted Tassa. If he’s bringing her to meet you, they are absolutely more than friends and you know it. You are a gracious hostess and will make the woman very welcome.

Margaret heard the hint of loneliness, but Tassa was not fishing for an invitation. Tassa had three girls, all living in various parts of the United States, and she seldom saw them or her four grandchildren and one great-grandson. Her husband had died from an aneurysm just over two years before, and Tassa missed him terribly.

Do you want to join us? asked Margaret. It’s been a while since you ate with us. And before you argue…you won’t be imposing. You know you are my soul-sister. Please come. Then you can check out Christopher’s new paramour, and I won’t have to be telling you all about it later.

Another whoosh of smoke accompanied Tassa’s response. Okay, I’ll come for supper. Thank you. Can I bring anything?

Please, please, please could you make Papanasi?

You always loved those cheese doughnuts. I haven’t made much of anything since…since Frank. Sure, I’ll bring Papanasi. Got nothing else to do these days, and I think I have all the ingredients. See you tomorrow. And don’t fret. All will work out.

~SUNDAY EVENING~

By 6pm on Sunday, both extender leaves were in Margaret’s antique table. The white Irish linen tablecloth provided a classy base for the Old Country Roses china, red napkins, Pinwheel crystal glasses, freshly polished silverware, and the long s-shaped iron candle holder with its five red tapers.

The apartment door swung open to reveal Natalie holding an oblong ceramic pan. Careful, it’s hot.

Margaret took the expected dish of lasagna and put it on the table. Steam brought the tomato-meaty smell through a small tear in the tinfoil. Have you talked to Christopher? He told you about his lady friend?

No, I haven’t talked to Chris. What’s this about a lady friend?

Margaret held up her hands. I know nothing, I swear. We’ll just have to wait and see.

Troy stepped over the threshold. I’ve got some of that D’Anjou Rose wine you like so much. And at least a gallon of cheap stuff for my wife.

Very funny. Natalie chuckled as she pulled off her boots.

Margaret always smiled when she watched her daughter and Troy. Natalie had been blessed with Greg’s height, the easily tanned skin, hazel eyes and thick brown hair. Troy Pendegras was one of the most handsome men Margaret had ever seen. Also tall, he had the features of a male model and the body of an athlete. Together Natalie and Troy made an attractive couple. High school sweethearts, they’d successfully navigated the perils and pitfalls of careers, marriage and parenthood. She hugged them with genuine affection. Troy’s embrace reflected that, but Natalie’s was little more than a quick pat.

Another tall figure entered and started shedding his coat and gloves. Hey, Nana.

Margaret extended her arms to meet her grandson’s hug, but Jordan’s face always gave her pause. The stamp of her ex-husband, Grampa Greg ran deep in the boy, not only his face, but also in his walk, and most of all his smile.

Come in, come in, she said. Go right to the table after washing your hands. We’ll start eating once everyone is here.

Troy held up the wine bottle. You ready for a glass?

Not quite yet, but pour one and put it by my plate, please.

Natalie and Margaret added the condiments to the table, started the coffee, and put out pickled beets and dilled carrots.

Hallooo. Tassa’s voice heralded her arrival as she dramatically presented Margaret with a cloth-covered tray from which emanated the wonderful aroma of fried sugary dough. I give to you Papanasi and all the fixings. Put your oven on very low to keep them warm until it’s time. Tassa handed her a shopping bag. Here’s the ice-cream and jam for the topping.

Margaret leaned in for their customary friendly kiss. It is so good to see you. Jordan, come and take Aunt Tassa’s coat. Be nice to her. She’s going to be sitting beside you at dinner.

Jordan grinned. You get the place of honor, right beside me.

You’re the lucky one, fella. Tassa took his arm. So, who has the alcohol?

~A LITTLE LATER~

Typical of Christopher not to be on time. He was fifteen days overdue when he was born