Alan Ridout: When joy is unconfined
Most people, after a minute’s reflection, would be able to tell you about a moment in
life when pleasure seemed almost overwhelming. It happened to David, the Psalmist and, being a poet, he wrote, ‘My cup runneth over’.
For me, these moments have come far too often for one undeserving man. Marriage and three children provided the best of those; our middle son and daughter-in-law provided at least one of them. It happened in August, 1993, while I was sitting with the composer Dr Alan Ridout at the back of a Montreal rehearsal room.
I was there because, a year earlier, he had asked me to provide him with a cantata libretto for a Royal School of Church Music event the following year. I decided to re-tell the Old Testament story of Samuel, the boy who heard a voice in the night. I sent it to Alan. The reply came quickly: he liked it and, once again, joy was unconfined.
Looking back, I now realise that the piece was to be almost the last he wrote; he died three years later, in March, 1996.
The reply was followed a few months later by his invitation to accompany him to a full week of rehearsals at CAMMAC (the Canadian Amateur Musicians Association Centre) up in the Laurentians, overlooking Lake McDonald. Quite unexpected and an enormous pleasure. About fifty trebles, selected from choirs all round Montreal, formed the choir.
The moment came. We had reached the last day but one and the piece was now being sung perfectly. Alan and I sat side by side and every now and then he would nudge me and whisper ‘Perfect!’ or ‘Ah, that was so good’. The next day it would be performed at St George’s Church in the city centre, and I could see he was beginning to relax. Then, as they sang one passage, I was aware of a door opening at the top end of the long rehearsal room. The Secretary emerged. I watched as she moved quietly out and stood, trying to catch the conductor’s eye without actually waving.
Eventually he spotted her and stopped the choir. She went up to him and said something quietly. He turned to face the room.
‘Is Paul here?’ he called, then, ‘Ah, Paul! You’re wanted on the phone.’ I felt my heart give a leap and my throat going dry as I walked to the secretary’s office. Bad news? Barbara? The kids?
The Secretary closed the door behind me. I picked up the phone. It was Barbara. 'Congratulations!' she said, 'you're a Grandfather!'
I came out of the office trying to get my head round the fact and found Alan standing by the door, looking anxious. ‘Everything all right, Paul?’ he said. And I told him, hardly hearing my own voice. He gave me a hug then turned and called to the conductor, 'Paul's a grandfather!' and the applause from the whole roomful of singers finished me off. The lump in the throat came and, so far as I can remember, I simply raised my hand in appreciation and stumbled back to my seat, with Alan in tow.