‘Oh, may we soon again renew that song!’

In recent years I’ve lurked nervously in the back row of the altos in a local choir, the Waltham Singers. Thursday evening, when we rehearse, has become a key moment in my week: partly because the choir expects a high standard and I’m therefore terrified to miss a moment’s practice, but also because of the liberating pleasure of focussing on music and words for two intense hours. I like the company too now I’m getting more confident and overcoming shyness.

Last Saturday (March 14th 2020) we gave a concert in Waltham Abbey church. Choir and audience numbers were already slightly down and everyone had needed to make their own decision whether to participate. Seven days further into the virus epidemic that concert seems like an occasion from another world. Even at the time there was a feeling of sad significance as choirs, orchestras, theatre productions, festivals across the world began to fall silent, ‘for the duration’. In war public music continues (where it can). It’s felt to be important as an expression of emotion and togetherness. In this pandemic physical togetherness has become suspect (pubs and restaurants are closed today by government order): we must find non-corporeal means to express our essential human connections.

Our concert ended with Parry’s ‘Blest Pair of Sirens’, a setting of Milton’s poem ‘At a Solemn Music’. It was written for Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee in 1897 and is music that encourages you to sing out with every last bronchiole of lung capacity. Then it rings in the secret auditorium for your head for days afterwards. Milton’s poem is about the music of the spheres, that distant time when all creation was one multi-part celestial harmony. Writing to all choir members afterwards our music director echoed the poet’s heartfelt wish ‘Oh may we soon again renew that song’. Thursday evenings are now bare; our summer concert cancelled and it’s hard not to wonder which of us won’t be there when the Waltham Singers music finally revives.

The following day (March 15th ) saw the cancellation of our Sunday Singalongs when the ‘Willow’ dementia suite where my mother lived for her last years, closed its doors to ‘inessential’ visitors. I’m not going to argue here about who’s ‘essential’ to people living with late stage dementia – I’ve done that elsewhere – I’ll just record what a gap this also leaves in my personal week. I’ve grown to love Doreen, Nancy, Pat, Ruth, Pauline, Agnes, Audrey, Alan and Geoff. They are already approaching the end of their lives and I fear that few of them will survive the months of illness and isolation that lie ahead. As I look at what I’ve written I hope I’m being overly pessimistic. Perhaps it’s the mood of the moment…

Staying at home last Sunday afternoon we tried to cheer ourselves up by recording some of our collective Singalong favourites and sending them into the care home, with cards and daffodils. I don’t know whether they were used. I fear not. I know, however, that some social care staff across the UK are magnificently going the extra mile to try to fill emotional (and physical) empty space with human voices. So, for them (or any domestic music-makers) Bertie has uploaded our Willow Family Songbook on the John’s Campaign website with a half dozen of last Sunday’s recordings. We’ll sing more if we’re asked. (He’ll probably add sheet music and guitar chords too.)

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Today (Saturday March 21st) should have been Patricia Wheen’s memorial service. Her family and friends would have come together to sing the hymns she’d chosen and regret she hadn’t reached her birthday (which would have been yesterday) or enjoyed being cherished on Mothering Sunday (tomorrow). Instead her three sons will stand in the open air of the churchyard at a 6’ distance from one another (one is undergoing chemotherapy) as her ashes are interred beside her husband. We, staying at home will think about her randomly with sadness and gratitude. I, personally, will continue to use her example to keep me diligent in writing these diary updates. When she said she’d do something, she did it.