The Penderwicks in Spring by Jeanne Birdsall Read Free Book Online Page B

except ‘Shenandoah.’ ” Mrs. Grunfeld closed her eyes again, waiting.
    Batty searched her memory, but her entire repertoire was gone, fled, vanished. Maybe it was the stress of standing here on display, out in the middle of the room. Batty looked longingly at the piano bench.
    “Maybe I could manage if I sat at the piano,” she said.
    “Do you play? Excellent. Go ahead, dear, and open yourself to the music.”
    Batty sat and let her fingers rest on the white keys. The feel of the piano gave her courage, and now a song came creeping back into her mind. It was on one of the albums Jeffrey had given her, with lyrics set to music by Chopin. Tentatively, Batty picked out the melody—having her back to Mrs. Grunfeld helped, no matter whose eyes were closed—then dropped her hands into her lap and started to sing.
    “I’m always chasing rainbows, watching clouds drifting by. My schemes are just like all my dreams …”
    She had chosen well. Chopin’s exquisite melody pulled her in, letting her forget herself, until all at once she came to the end and was jolted back into the Wildwood Elementary School music room with a teacher she’d just met that morning. She swiveled around on the bench, with no idea of what to expect. Mrs. Grunfeld still had her eyes closed.
    “That was the key of G, Batty? Try it in C.”
    Surely it was time for explanations. “But—”
    “And a little more slowly this time. Larghetto.”
    So Batty sang “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows” again, more slowly and in the key of C. Halfway through, she realized that this was a much better key for her and that larghetto gave her the time she needed to appreciate Chopin’s melodic intervals. Huh, she thought. She’d never bothered to consider such things in terms of singing.
    This time when Batty finished and turned around, Mrs. Grunfeld’s eyes were open and she looked pleased with herself.
    “Thank you, Batty,” she said. “I was correct this morning. You have a beautiful voice. Rare and beautiful.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You don’t agree?”
    Batty didn’t agree or disagree. Music for her was the piano. “I just never thought about it.”
    “And your family. They don’t sing?”
    “No.” Batty didn’t want to mention that they sounded like depressed sheep. “Mrs. Grunfeld, are you sure? That I can sing, I mean?”
    “Yes, quite sure.”
    Batty slid back and forth on the piano bench, trying to let this all sink in. It was true that lately her voice had felt richer, like molasses instead of maple syrup, but she’d paid no attention, thinking it was just part of growing older.
    Mrs. Grunfeld said, “Since this is news for you, I can assume you’ve had no voice training.”
    “You mean lessons?”
    “Yes, lessons. When and if you do decide you want training, you must choose a teacher who won’t make you do that awful belting everyone is being taught these days. People see it on television and think it’s the correct way to sing.” Mrs. Grunfeld stretched out her arms and sang, loudly, with an extra tremor in her voice that could have been dramatic, but just sounded silly.
    “I
have
seen people sing like that on television.” Batty was increasingly impressed with Mrs. Grunfeld’s breadth of knowledge.
    “Very bad for children’s voices, too.”
    “I won’t belt, I swear,” said Batty, surprised to find herself promising not to do something she’d never considered doing. “Not for years and years, if ever.”
    “Excellent.” Mrs. Grunfeld nodded, pleased. “If you ever have questions about singing, come to me. Yes? I will be here every Tuesday and Friday.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Grunfeld.”
    “You’re welcome. And thank you for singing for me. It was an unlooked-for treat, like finding an orchid blooming in a daisy field.”
    Batty left in a daze. An orchid in a daisy field! Her father would love that description.
    “What happened?” asked Ben. “I heard someone screeching.”
    “That was Mrs. Grunfeld