What Money Can't Buy

One of the books on my office bookshelf is by the American philosopher Michael Sandel - a philosopher who has become almost a legend in his own life time and who many term the "rock star philosopher" so popular is he, even with people who thought philosophy a rather dry and boring subject.  (For information about Sandel and to follow his hugely successful philosophy course on Justice from Harvard and which deals with much of the content of this book - click Michael Sandel Justice ). The book is called “What money can’t buy” and discusses the various aspects of our modern society that have increasingly become things for which many are prepared to pay – for example paying for the services of a surrogate mother to carry a pregnancy,  paying someone to stand in a queue on our behalf so that we don’t have to be bothered with the time wasting burden of queuing for tickets for our favourite concert, or perhaps paying for our children to go to a private school in order that they might get a “better” education than that provided by the state. Sandel discusses the various moral issues associated with these and many other examples and asks the question what are the moral limits of the market – are there any things that should not be “up for sale”?

I thought of Sandel’s book last night as I sat in the magnificent surroundings of the 18th century Tabley House near Knutsford in Cheshire. My thoughts were not of what we should or should not pay for but rather are there things whose intrinsic worth to humanity is not related to their monetary value  - if indeed they have any monetary value? In short are there aspects of life that money really can't buy no matter how rich or poor one is? As the concert progressed I realised that indeed there are! We were enjoying a concert in which our daughter’s chamber orchestra, The Vivaldi Ensemble, were playing together with the Knott Singers. It was a lovely evening: magnificent surroundings, wonderful playing, exquisite singing, a warm and uplifting atmosphere and all in a good cause - to raise money and awareness of a very worthwhile and important organisation “AUD-M-ED”, a charity devoted to raising money and awareness of the plight of deaf people in the developing world (https://www.audmed.org.uk/) .

On more than one occasion as I sat there listening to the wonderful music and looking around at the glorious room  in which we all sat I thought to myself  “It doesn’t get much better than this”. It wasn't about lovely music played by some great musicians - although the music was lovely and the musicians were great (though not famous!). But it was about the pleasure,  the personal satisfaction and the basic instinct inherent in every human to recognise what is good and worthy. As the music flowed a few words from the past came into my mind; words that when I was in the classroom and children came at the end of their time at my school to ask if I would write something in their autograph book for them to keep and remember as they moved on to their next school. I always wrote the same thing - the wonderful words from St Paul's letter to the Philippians Chapter 4: Verse 8: ".....Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, then think on these things.”  As I sat in Tabley House last night I had absolutely no doubt that what I was seeing and hearing was manifestly of good report, pure, virtuous, honest, worth thinking about and all the other fitting descriptions - and that these are all qualities quite unrelated to monetary value, worth or price. Like standing on the clifftop overlooking the sunset on the sea's distant  horizon it was an evening to make one feel good about the world and about humanity - and that must be the most priceless thing imaginable and yet it has no cost; money cannot buy it, it can be experienced by the richest and the poorest of humanity just as the qualities listed by St Paul can be adhered to by everyone no matter what their standing or wealth. So it was with the concert: all the participants were “amateurs” giving their time freely and the cost of our tickets wasn’t driven by the market value of the musicians or the richness of the venue – it was simply a means to give some money to this most worthy cause. In her opening welcome comments to the audience Dr Dolores Umapathy reminded us all that were going to enjoy listening to some wonderful music - an opportunity that would be denied, because of their deafness, to the many people in the developing  world and who the charity sought to help. We were not paying for the opportunity to hear lovely music but giving to help ensure that others, in far off places and who we would probably never meet, might have the opportunity to do what we so often take for granted - namely to hear.

Surrounded by beautiful paintings and rich furnishings we were treated to music that ranged from the glories of Vivaldi’s Venice and St Marks Square, to English folk songs; from the barges on the Thames carrying King George 1^st as he listened, in 1717, to Handel’s much loved Water Music to the mesmerising and haunting choral work by Charles Villiers Stanford The Blue Bird  - apposite, I thought, for out of the window and in the far distance, one could see Tabley House’s mere – the words of Stanford’s work “The lake lay blue below the hill, O'er it, as I looked, there flew, Across the waters, cold and still, A bird whose wings were palest blue.....” seemingly made real. Then, in a trice, we were taken back to the very birth of choral polyphony as we listened to the Knott Singers performing a work by the Italian Renaissance composer Palestrina; a real show stopper this, ethereal, soul searching, awe inspiring, music, quite simply to please the gods! But again, in a breath, we were in the 20^th century captivated by the Vivaldi Ensemble’s rendering of the quintessential English Brook Green Suite by Holst – cream teas, English country church yards, cricket balls hitting the willow and men in boaters escorting gowned ladies - the very essence of  Edwardian England interwoven into Holst's lovely and evocative composition.   

And so it went on: the Sinfonia from Bach’s light, but at the same time wistful, Non sa che sia dolore from his Cantata BWV 209, and then from Bach’s 18^th century Leipzig we flitted just a few miles across Saxony to enjoy the captivating Viola Concerto by Telemann. Written at about the same time as Bach’s Cantata, Telemann’s Viola Concerto is the first known viola concerto and an absolute joy. It was probably written in Frankfurt at about the same time that Bach was composing his Cantata – and we all sat hanging on every note as Nigel Jay led the Vivaldi Ensemble and at the same time played his viola to provide a superb rendering of this delightful work; it was a real high spot of the evening. My wife, Pat, read my thoughts as she leaned across during the applause and said "We haven't got a CD of that have we?" I shook my headed and mentally noted that Amazon would soon be getting an order!

The concert began with the Vivaldi Ensemble playing one of Vivaldi’s much loved works (the Concerto C Major) and the second half, too, began with Vivaldi, this time the Concerto in G Minor. The Ensemble  captured beautifully the sound, the feel and the magic of Vivaldi’s Venice: the lapping waters of the Grand Canal, the glorious architecture, world of Casanova, dark narrow streets and shady piazzas, the everyday life and at the same time the high culture of La Serenissimo – the Serene Republic. The Vivialdi Ensemble, under BBC Philharmonic player Jay's subtle, skilled and gently enthusiastic leadership produced a rich textured sound absolutely right for the music, the occasion, and the venue. It was easy to imagine, I thought, that this must have been very  much like the sound that Venetians heard as they listened to these works in the salons of Vivaldi's Venice, or that George 1^st heard as he cruised down the Thames listening to Handel’s great Water Music in 1717. Nigel Jay has both musical depth and a gentle winning manner, plus an obvious love of music combined with an ability to encourage and get the best from his players – and it showed to the full last night.

What we heard was music played from the very heart and where every instrument – violins, violas and cellos - and every player in this little string group beautifully complemented each other to provide a kaleidoscope of interwoven sounds to please the ear and catch every detail and nuance of the works. The Vivaldi Ensemble has been a major part of the south Manchester amateur musical scene for many years and has established a fine reputation for both the range and quality of their repertoire. As last night’s concert showed they are equally happy with High Baroque as they are with 20^th century music and under Nigel Jay’s baton they are going from strength to strength.

From the glories of 17^th century Venice we ended the concert with the Knott Singers sending us on our way with two English folk songs arranged by Holst – the lyrical and at the same time plaintive and haunting I Love My Love and, in complete contrast, the lively Swansea Town. In her introduction, conductor Katharine Longworth reminded us of the debt owed to Gustav Holst who, like his contemporary Ralph Vaughan Williams, did so much to ensure that the ancient folk songs of the British Isles were preserved for posterity. Katharine Longworth’s love of music is obvious for all to see and hear; the passion with which she talks of music, the enthusiastic and animated conducting, the rapport with her singers (and her audience) and the all too obvious joy that is apparent with every  note sung ensures that the sound created is both infectious and long lasting. Her singers were not only a joy to hear but a pleasure to watch – smiling faces, totally concentrated on their conductor, completely and ease with what they were doing even though they were singing some technically difficult music – and totally unaccompanied.  

This was top order stuff from the group; beautiful diction and clarity, a purity of sound, never a note or a beat missed, never a note off key. The choir’s voices wove complex and sumptuous patterns that filled the high ceilinged room to the very rafters complementing exactly the  richness of the decor, the furnishings and the great oil paintings that surrounded us. Katharine Longworth had explained that they were “just a group of friends who loved to sing” – well, maybe, but that tells only half of the story. They are in truth a highly accomplished set of musicians who have the knack of passing on their joyous love of music to the audience – a gift not always given, even to the greatest.

We had sat for about two hours enjoying this wonderful musical evening and those hours had passed as if in what seemed a matter of seconds. And as I sat, time and again I thought to myself this is something that money really can’t buy! True, we had all paid for our tickets – but that tells only a tiny part of the story. For our few pounds we had enjoyed so much more: we had made a donation to a worthy cause, listened to some wonderful music, been reminded that, unlike many in the world, we all had the sense of hearing enabling us to enjoy the glory of these performers, composers and the music, but above all (for me at least) I had been part of something special – and something which is always given freely by music of any kind.  As if by magic I had been transported back to Vivaldi’s Venice and heard what the citizens of Venice heard 300 years ago; I had listened to ancient music that had filled the towns and villages of the British Isles of yesteryear and which had perhaps been sung by my ancestors in the fields, the factories, the houses and the inns of years gone by. For a few minutes I sat on that barge on the River Thames with George 1st and watched George Frederick Handel conduct his orchestra; or, jumping a couple of centuries, I was in the Edwardian England of Charles Villiers Stanford or standing on Brook Green, outside St Paul’s Girls' School in London where Gustav Holst taught music. As the Knott Singers  sang I was at once in 16^th century England listening to the madrigals of Thomas Morley and then in a trice reliving the Coronation of Elizabeth II in 1953 as I enjoyed the The Hills  written for that great day by English composer John Ireland to celebrate the hills and the heaths and uplands of the British Isles -  part of the collection of musical works by British composers forming A Garland for the Queen.

These are all things that money cannot buy; the music that we had all enjoyed as we sat in this wonderful ancient stately home had given me a free ticket to the past, and an opportunity to almost touch that past. I wasn’t just listening to a few bits of rather nice music performed by some quite good musicians – instantly heard and quickly forgotten. No, the music and the musicians, the place and the occasion allowed my mind to wander back through time and just for a few minutes hear exactly what those people of far of times and places had heard and enjoyed. In a small way I could be a part of something very much bigger, something that crosses the generations and continents – from Venice to London, from 16^th century Rome to the port of Swansea, from Bach’s 18^th century Leipzig to Holst’s Edwardian Brook Green. As humans we do not just live in the present – we have inherited a world built in  the past and created by the industry and wisdom of the those who have gone before us. And in our turn we must bequeath a future to those who come after us. As historian and philosopher Tony Judt said “We have responsibilities for others, not just across space but across time. We have responsibilities to people who came before us. They left us a world of institutions, ideas or possibilities for which we, in turn, owe them something. One of the things we owe them is not to squander them but to build on them to pass on something worthy and good to those who come after us”.

Music is part of that lexicon and last night’s concert so wonderfully performed let me for a couple of hours have access to it and, from my 21^st century viewpoint, see the world through the musical eyes of previous centuries and places. It brought home to me this heritage from the past and the unwritten but implicit promise that we all must make to the future. It was an opportunity to reconnect with the past and in turn to have the memories of a wonderful evening and glorious music to keep and take into my own future. Just as money cannot buy the wonderful feelings of seeing a glorious sunset that becomes part of one's memory or money cannot buy the joy that one feels at the birth of one's son or daughter or the feelings of the day when one marries, so too, money could not buy the opportunities, feelings and pleasure that last night's concert gave. And as we left the concert and carefully trod our way along the garden paths through the gathering darkness and so back to the car park, in front of us were two or three of the choir members – they were still singing what they had been performing only minutes earlier - carrying these musical gems from the past into the April 2018 evening Cheshire dusk! What a lovely way to end such a splendid night and to have in our minds as we took the motorway south from the outskirts of Manchester to our home in far off Nottingham.

Memory Lane

He half dragged, half lifted the box from the wardrobe which, with its huge bevelled glass mirror, carved Victorian scroll work and flying birds had been ancient when he was a child over sixty years before. He could still remember the day that his mother had bought it at a house clearance sale. His father had brought it home on the back of the lorry that he drove for a local haulage company, Ainsworth & Martin, who traded from their garage on Maitland Street just a few hundred yards from where, as a child, he had lived in Caroline Street. And he marvelled, as he had then, at how the thing had been heaved and dragged by his father and his father’s friend, Alf Burkett - who was also a driver at Ainsworth's and lived round the corner in Derby Square - up the steep narrow stairs and into the bedroom of the two up two down house in Caroline Street while his mother gave instructions and cursed if they went too close to the wallpapered walls. Even as a child he had thought it ugly, but now now, in his eighth, decade he ruefully wondered, if it might be worth something on the Antiques Road Show.

Heaving the cardboard box onto the bare mattress of the bed he pulled back the flaps and peered inside. He knew immediately what it was, photograph albums. His nose picked up smells from the past; cigarettes, the slightly sweet smell of old paper, mothballs, the smells of his childhood. Even before he took one out he had recognised them; his auntie’s old albums, their covers dulled with age, no longer the shiny faux leather or bright cloth that he remembered from his childhood; these were things he hadn’t seen for a lifetime and yet he already pictured their contents.

Auntie Edna & Uncle Joe
Preston Holiday Week 1960

He pulled one out; “Memory Lane” was embossed in a flowing gold script across the cover. He took out another with a tartan cover and the words “Boots’ Photograph Album” printed in a utilitarian black print across the top. A third, “All Your Yesterdays De-Luxe Photograph Album”, said the legend - and to show that it was “De-Luxe” the corners of the cover were decorated with cheap imitation brass and at the spine a bow with fraying tassels tied the pages into the album. He sat on the edge of the mattress and flicked open the album and looked at the black and white faces that stared back at him from the past, his past.

On the inside of the cover written in a neat, rounded, unsophisticated schoolgirl like hand was his Auntie’s name “Edna Park”. His mother had never been one for photographs and certainly not for keeping them for sentimental reasons, but her sister, his auntie, had always liked to snap with her cheap little plastic Kodak Brownie camera. Edna had died several years before his mother and his mother had obviously, and strangely he thought, kept her sister’s photograph albums after clearing out Edna’s house. He instinctively shook his head in bewilderment sadly doubting that his mother had ever taken them out of the box in the years following Edna’s death. He had loved his mother and he knew that she had loved him, but had known from an early age that she didn’t “do” sentiment or shows of tender emotion; life was for working not reminiscing or dreaming. As she’d had so often reminded him, “There’s plenty of time for dreaming when you’re in your box”.

Lake Coniston 1955

He flicked open more of the albums. In the front of each was Edna’s neat handwriting and under the photographs written in blue biro, names or places: “Morecambe July 1953”, “Joe at No. 39 Fishwick View May 1956”, “Chester Zoo August 1956”, “Doris, Fred and Tony at Blackpool 1957”, “Picnic Trough of Bowland 1960”......... .He looked at the long gone faces, the dresses that he remembered his mother and auntie wearing, his uncle’s hand knitted cardigan that he always seemed to wear whatever the weather. As he gazed at the photograph of the Trough of Bowland he could almost smell the meths from the little primus stove that his father always took in the boot of the car that they hired for the week to take them for days out in Preston holiday week; Joe and his father crouching as they sorted the china cups while waiting for the primus to boil the little kettle. His mother, Edna, Joe and him travelling around Lancashire as his dad, the only driver, took them to the seaside and other beauty spots and occasionally stopped by the roadside for an picnic or a “brew”.

Outside No 18 Caroline Street 1954

He turned the pages, running his fingers across the photographs; most were stuck firmly with glue – he could still picture the little bottle of glue that his auntie kept for the purpose, bought at Joe Unsworth’s newsagents - between the off licence and the cake shop - on New Hall Lane at the end of Caroline Street. The bottle had a red rubber top with a slit out of which the glue came – except that at the end of each use the slit got blocked with dried glue and he could picture his auntie swearing quietly as she tried to unblock the slit with a pair of scissors. Some of the albums had the pictures mounted with little white corner pieces which he remembered you could buy at Boots or Woolworths. He lifted the black sugar paper page to his nose and sniffed it. Instantly he was back at 39 Fishwick View – his auntie’s house - as if yesterday: homemade chicken soup, tinned salmon, chocolate éclairs, Pears soap, Carnation  Cream, evaporated milk, tins of mandarin oranges......the smells and tastes of his childhood spent so often at his auntie’s. Unlike his mother, who so often raged against the world and believed firmly in her oft quoted motto “It’s a hard life if you don’t weaken”, his auntie, a Lancashire lass, a cotton weaver, had simple pleasures, gave unconditional love and seemed to live by the name on the label of her favourite bottle of beer that she drank once a week at the New Hall Lane Tavern: Dutton’s “OBJ – Oh Be Joyful”. And deep inside he wept.

Auntie Edna's once a week tipple

at the New Hall Lane Tavern: 'OBJ'

"Oh Be Joyful" - and she was!

The faces peered back at him and he remembered times that he had never truly forgotten: a crowded Christmas tea when the family gathered at his auntie’s, doing the “Twist” as Chubby Checker blared out from the radiogram in Edna’s front room, standing with Tony and Gary Clarkson in front of his house - each in their khaki summer shorts, bare chested, and each of thinking themselves the height of cool, sporting their snake buckle belts. And, there he was standing on the pebbles at the side of the River Ribble throwing stones to make them bounce on the water’s surface while his father, Joe and Edna enjoyed a glass of shandy at the nearby Bridge Inn on a balmy Saturday evening. He remembered as if yesterday those Saturday evening walks down through the country and the allotments on the edge of Preston known as Fishwick Bottoms or locally as the “Loney” or the “Bonk”.  Walking down the hill and hoping, praying even, that his mother would not be difficult again, that another argument would not spoil the night; that perhaps his mother would, for once, have a glass of shandy or even just a lemonade to show that she was like other people.  But she never did, and another tear misted his eye.

Gary, Tony & Me Caroline Street 1957

He ruefully reflected that photographs give only half of the story; the smiles but not the tears; the good times, but never what goes on behind closed doors and in the darkness of family minds. He ran his fingers again over the photographs, touching the faces on the bits of paper that held such memories but in reality told so little. His auntie would have had them developed at the chemist’s in New Hall Lane; he imagined her standing outside the shop pulling them from the packet to see if they had turned out.  In her broad Lancashire accent she would pass them around and say “Eeeh, that’s a good ‘un of Tony, I’ve got the negative, do you want me to get one for you Doris?”  But his mother rarely did – she seemed always to want to set herself apart, to be strong and display no weakness by outward shows of sentimentality. He traced his fingers again around the faces; his auntie’s fingers would have touched them, she was still on them, he was touching what she had once touched and he suddenly realised how very personal they were; things from  the past, touched, treasured and once  loved. Not at all like the digital photographs that he kept on his lap top – just pixels in cyberspace with no permanence, gone when he closed the lap top lid, convenient but not personal. Have we lost something of our humanity he wondered, lost the capacity to touch and feel as we increasingly store all that we know and do in cyberspace; emails not handwritten letters, digital blogs not diaries, photographs of a million pixels and not a printed piece of photographic paper that can be kept, loved and treasured; a physical link with the past and the person pictured or who wrote them, personalised them with their own handwriting style - left their mark, who touched them?

Lancaster Canal at Torrisholm Preton Holidays 1960

Here was his childhood – the cowboy suit with the tassled waistcoat, him sitting in Lake Coniston with Joe and his father standing in the lake their trousers rolled up, him sitting fishing in the Lancaster Canal, his father, a young man standing in his demob suit holding a small baby – him, a family group his mother, as ever, never looking at the camera.  So much of his family’s history, so much of who and what he was. And, suddenly, he felt an overwhelming urge to sob. So many good times captured by his auntie’s cheap little plastic Kodak Brownie but never a photograph of him sitting at the top of the stairs night after night sobbing, terrified, as his mother shouted in anger while his father meekly stood soaking up her rage, rarely replying, until she burned herself out and stormed off to bed. No photographs of the mealtimes when he had sat silent dreading that his mother would pick up on some small thing and launch into another vitriolic tirade – the peas not being hot enough, the gravy too thin...always his father’s fault since he had cooked the Sunday dinner as she lay in bed till lunchtime completing the Sunday Express crossword. The camera never recorded the thousands of times when, daily, he had desperately made inane comments, or asked stupid questions – anything to deflect the conversation and distract his mother so that her bubbling inner rage against the world and his father did not erupt. The camera never showed these nor what went on inside his young mind – and which still, nearly seven decades later still ate away at his inner being leaving only anxiety, fear, regret and guilt. 

Making a brew near the Trough of Bowland

He looked up at the ugly wardrobe and remembered the day his father had at last broke. He had stood, tears streaming down his face, as his father stood in front of the wardrobe stuffing his few belongings into a bag while his mother screamed “That’s, right, clear off  like a rat from a sinking ship......” . And then she grabbed the boy’s hand and dragged him downstairs and out along the streets into the 1950s Preston’s Saturday afternoon shopping throng. When, hours later they returned, her anger left in Woolworths and British Home Stores the boy was terrified; his father would be gone, forever. But when they opened the door, his father was sitting, red eyed, in front of the coal fire. He stood and said “Hello Love, all the cleaning up’s done, and I’ve changed the beds – as he did every Saturday afternoon when he came home from work – “Do you want a brew Love - you must be ready for one?”. His wife, the boy’s mother, said nothing, as if the flare up had never happened – until, the boy knew, it would happen again.

The camera never lies, but it tells only half of the truth.