while, some fellow had been plinking ineffectually, if unobtrusively, in the background, trying to follow the recorded orchestrations relayed by the gramophone. At length he gave up and resumed his seat by the bar, an air of resignation defined by his every movement. It had been a hard act to follow. We were listening to the first Victor recordings, cut in 1926, of Jelly Roll Morton and his Red Hot Peppers, intricate ensemble music, punctuated by breathtaking breaks, and played by New Orleans musicians in the grand New Orleans manner.
There came a lull in the programme provided by our publican. At the time I was deep in conversation with a Canadian couple whom I had met previously, and who, like me, professed a keen interest in birds. I was only dimly aware that the music had stopped, and then started up again. Unmistakably, it was still Jelly Roll at the keyboard, but this time in solo performance. I could claim a certain familiarity with both the composition and its rendering, for I had always been a Morton fan and kept practically all his discs in my own collection.
Yet I detected a subtle difference in timbre and execution, which struck me as odd; indeed so odd that I thought I would make mention of my discovery to Hector. On turning to address him, I found his seat vacant. And then I had the shock of my life, for I saw in one blinding flash of recognition that, quite unbeknown to me, Hector had exchanged bar-stool for piano-stool: it was he, not Morton, who was now the founder of the feast.
To say that I was entranced would be to understate the case. I passed the rest of that soiree in a state of total exaltation. He played beautifully, and, I must say, with great originality. His was no slavish imitation; everything he performed was his own highly individual interpretation. Apart from one or two numbers derived from other jazz masters, it was mostly Morton; but there were tunes of his own composing which would have graced the repertoire of Mr. Jelly Lord himself. He even came up with one perfectly spontaneous piece, which he entitled Beggars’ Bush Bumps and dedicated to the landlord’s lively and luscious Balinese wife.
After playing for two hours or more, Hector declared a halt and his intention to have one for the road. I congratulated him on his virtuoso recital, and although he evinced only a characteristic modesty, I had the distinct impression that my appreciation of his output pleased him no end.
My enthusiasm had touched him. That much was evident. There existed already between us that bond which unites the devotees of any idiom; and although I lacked Hector’s musical faculty, we shared an affinity for classic jazz and for what is considered to be classical music in general. As I was later to learn, Hector could recreate the compositions of Morton and Chopin with equal facility—his two favourite composers he maintained. He had that God-given gift of being able to reproduce, after one hearing only, any melody or set-piece note for note. Having perfect pitch, he played everything by ear. As to scored arrangements, he was unable to read a note.
“Thanks for being such good company and rescuing me from the flood.”
“Really it was nothing. I thank you. And I loved the way you played: simply marvellous.” We were standing at the foot of the steps, under the sign of the inn, and it was time to go our separate ways. But before our parting, another revelation was at hand.
“You’re keen on birds, aren’t you?” Hector announced and enquired. “I’m fairly keen myself,” he went on, “although I must admit I’m not as well versed in the local avifauna as you.”
That shook me, I can tell you. Not everyone talks in terms of avifauna. And while I may have mentioned birds en passant at the table, I had deliberately refrained from revealing my passion for the subject. It is very boorish to inflict one’s specialities on perfect strangers, unless previously apprised of their personal interest. Possibly Hector had overheard a part of my discussion with the Canucks. I hardly knew how to respond; so I let him continue.
“Tell you what,” he proposed unexpectedly: “why don’t we slope off for a bit of bird spotting in the next day or two, provided of course that you don’t have something better to do?”
I assured him that nothing would please me more, and that I was ready when he was. “I’m as free as a bird,” I said.
“Great! Well that’s settled. How about tomorrow?”
“Suits me fine.” So it was arranged that we should meet the following day at noon, on the selfsame premises.
“First we’ll have a bite and sup,” insisted Hector, “before setting off in search of the rara avis.”
And as he pronounced these final words, it occurred to me that I might have already found it.
Chapter III
The Burial Chamber
PUNCTUALLY, AT NOON, I presented myself at our rendezvous and found Hector ensconced in the bar. He was accompanied by a most prepossessing lady of imperious aspect, palish-complexioned, with superior cheek-bones and prominent beak, and a massy mane of red hair.
“My sister Hermione,” Hector rose and introduced us; “she arrived only this morning, directly from Gatwick: one of those cheap bucket-shop jobs. I wasn’t expecting her till tomorrow. Do you mind if she joins us?”
“Good God no!” said I, as Hermione flashed the most perfect set of white teeth. “I mean.....delighted to have you with us. I just hope you won’t find it too boring, that’s all.”
“Boring?” interrogated this red-polled enchantress; “what do you mean by boring? Hector tells me you’re a bit of a bird-fancier. Being something of a nature-lover myself, I find that quite fascinating.”
Not knowing what to say, I mumbled some superfluity like “terrific” or “fantastic,” and then, more to the point: “All right, let’s have a drink.” We adjourned to the bar.
Feeling much more relaxed, if more keenly aware of the captivating presence beside me, I believe I managed to hold my own in the ensuing conversation, but I must confess that I am never entirely at ease on first meeting an attractive woman, especially one so undeniably stunning as Hermione. Afflicted, as I am, by an innate shyness, born of a solitary upbringing, I am too readily susceptible and, at the same time, unprepared for proximity.
“Where are we going, and who will lead the way?” demanded Hector, when we had finished munching our sandwiches and sipping our beers. “Since you’re the bird man,” he continued without pause, clapping me on the back, “I suggest we get fell in behind you.”
“Oh I think we might all sally forth together,” said I, bounding down the steps and across the road.
So we proceeded gaily, up the famous steps to the water conduit, scene of the previous evening’s impromptu soaking—“a certain sense of déjà vu,” I remember Hector remarking—then into the terraced paddy-fields. Knowing the area fairly well as a result of my frequent bird-watching sorties, I had mapped out in my mind a rough plan of our itinerary; and I proposed to bring my friends to the great river valley, lying a short distance to the west. Not perhaps the most fruitful region from an ornithological view-point, nevertheless it promised some of the most beautiful tramping country and panoramic views to be found anywhere on earth.
In the fields, a knee-deep green carpet of burgeoning new growth, were herons and bitterns and Java Kingfishers, with resplendent purple and turquoise and chestnut plumes, crowned with scarlet stiletto bills. True to form, Hector continued to astonish me by pointing them all out, usually before I was even aware of them. He seemed to know the local birds as well as I. With an unerring eagle-eye and an almost uncanny competence, and without the aid of binoculars, he was able to distinguish
