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SECRETS and WHISPERS

Prologue

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   The concert had started well. At least if one judged it by the length of the applause that followed the first item. There was a considerably larger audience than usually attended such events. The many bench seats that are dotted around The Groves by the bandstand were fully occupied. Special folding seats had been placed in all the gaps between them. There were more of these seats right up close to the bandstand, and another set further back. The organiser of the concert was surprised that their publicity had been so successful. They had drawn a much larger crowd than expected, and nearly all the seats were taken. Several people sitting on the bench seats had played the familiar trick of placing their coats and hats on the seat next to them. Gradually, more and more folk arrived, and these coats were reluctantly moved to their owners’ laps. 

   There was a throng of people tapping their feet standing at the back. There were even people standing on the nearby suspension bridge over the Dee. One nervous member of the audience thought she could see the bridge leaning downstream towards the bandstand. 

    ‘Look,’ she exclaimed, ‘I’m sure it’s going to tilt right over before long.’ Her neighbours smiled at what they thought was her usual tendency to exaggerate. One neighbour reminded her of how, when they were children, they had jumped around to make the bridge shake. 

   ‘It’s been there since 1923. That’s more than a century ago. I think it will survive a mere Saturday afternoon concert. I’m more worried about all those musicians leaning against the bandstand balustrade.’

   The bandstand was enthusiastically performing the function for which it was built some seventy years earlier. It was an octagonal affair with a hipped tiled roof and surrounded by decorative wrought-iron balustrades. It proudly interrupted the broad sweeping steps that ran the length of The Groves along the bank of the River Dee. All the way along these steps, people were sitting listening to the concert. The bandstand jutted out into the river in a successful attempt to look more important than its size deserved. Chester was putting on its Saturday afternoon best. Somehow, the sounds of the concert band complemented the romantic river frontage, the beautiful summery bridge and the aromas of planting in the nearby park. This was an ageless scene that appealed to all the senses.

   In truth, the concert band of precocious musicians playing was rather too large for the moderately sized bandstand. The players were huddled together rather more closely than was ideal. The flute players had particular problems with their instruments held out to the side. One flautist had unfortunately poked her neighbour in the eye as she enthusiastically played her short solo. But such minor inconveniences were tolerated with good grace. The audience and players were happy to be sitting or standing in the delicate sunlight of an early spring Saturday afternoon.

The Butcher family were gathered together on the bench seat right in front of the bandstand, envied by everybody. But despite the general atmosphere of geniality, a minor familial dispute was already developing. Mr Butcher had been dispatched before lunch to claim the best place, a task which he felt he had carried out perfectly. Unfortunately, the view of the young Johnny Butcher playing his alto saxophone was totally obscured by other players. Mrs Butcher was not satisfied with this unacceptable situation. Mr Butcher was sent to find a seat with a better view of little Johnny. Mrs Butcher remained on the bench seat with their five-year-old daughter, Elaine. 

The programme was of music from the movies and musicals. They had begun with a collection of well-known, foot-tapping tunes from The Sound of Music. The second item was a selection from Les Misérables. The audience was swaying to the more plaintive strains of Bring Him Home. The Butchers’ neighbours and friends, the Jessops, arrived a little late and caught sight of Mrs Butcher and Elaine. Their daughter, Julie, was the same age as Elaine and wanted her to join them. Mrs Butcher agreed, and Elaine set off with her friend’s family. Mrs Butcher looked around and saw Mr Butcher waving frantically. He had found some seats with a better view of Johnny. Of course, he had to persuade the other occupants, reluctantly, to move some coats. Mrs Butcher came to join her husband, and the coats were grudgingly put on laps. All was well in the Butcher household.

 

 

 

   A couple of hours later, the concert was nearing its climax with a final selection of John Williams’ dramatic tunes for Star Wars. Little Elaine wanted to be reunited with her family. The published programme had finished, but Elaine had not reckoned with a riotous encore.

   ‘I’m just going back to Mummy and Daddy,’ she declared. Mr Jessop saw her mouth move but heard no words, so loud were the trumpet and trombone. He smiled and turned back to watch the musicians. Elaine set off running through the crowds. She disappeared almost immediately as all members of the audience rose to their feet to applaud the encore. A worried Mr Jessop started running after Elaine to make sure she arrived safely. By now, many people were making their way home, and he lost sight of her. He eventually found the Butchers standing and looking for Elaine.

   ‘Where is Elaine?’ demanded Gordon Butcher.

   ‘She dashed off to come back to you, and I lost sight of her.’

   ‘She never came back here. Anyway, we moved, and she wouldn’t know where we were. Where on earth is she?’

   ‘The crowd is beginning to thin. Perhaps we’ll see her soon,’ replied Mr Jessop pathetically. He was beginning to realise the potential seriousness of the situation and was blaming himself. Gordon Butcher patted him on the shoulder.

   ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Gordon Butcher rather unconvincingly. Mr Jessop was wringing his hands, not knowing what to do.

   It was not long before Jonny Butcher had packed his instrument into its case and come down from the bandstand. He had expected to be congratulated for his performance, but the mood had become rather different.  The crowd had largely disappeared. Still, there was no sign of little Elaine. Mrs Butcher was distraught. Gordon kept dashing around The Groves pointlessly and totally unsuccessfully. The five-year-old Elaine had disappeared without a trace. Gordon Butcher collapsed onto a now-empty bench seat with his head in his hands.

   ‘She wouldn’t just disappear like this,’ he sobbed. ‘Someone must have taken her.’