The Maestro, 1928

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That maestro is me! I am a maestro, and an orphan too. You don’t know my name, and you never will! It’s a secret, you see.  But you can just call me “maestro.” All the members of my choir were abandoned. They have no fathers or mothers; we’re all orphans here. We were all cast aside for reasons we don’t know, dumped on the doorstep of the Leytonstone orphanage here in England. Doesn’t matter, really. Nothing to make a fuss over, if you ask me. Life goes on, as they say. Still, the mash they serve for lunch here is horrible. I hate peeling the spuds with sister Regina watching over me. The slivers of skin stick to my fingers, and the starch clogs beneath my fingernails. The cabbage soup is revolting. I can’t take any more of that sad, limp soup. It turns my stomach, bubbling in my guts and making me stink like an old cheese. I have cabbage coming out of my eyes. Luckily the orphanage gets fresh milk every morning. Thick, yellow and creamy. It smells so good, it would make you wish you were a baby cow.

I always insist that we practice in the morning. As usual, I climb onto my pedestal armed with my baton, and I conduct my orchestra. Quite the little maestro, I am. If you’re not sure what a maestro is, well, first I’ll need to introduce you to my choir. First there’s James, my tenor and my favourite. He has a lovely deep intonation. That’s why he’s always first chair. James is the hardest-working lad here, whether he’s singing or doing chores. He snores all night in the dormitory, so no-one else can sleep. He loves singing, and he hates the cabbage soup. Then there’s Jennifer. She wasn’t given a name when she was born. The sisters here at the orphanage gave her that name. The mother superior found a note stuck to the door that read: “Please call her Jennifer, for the love of God!” Jennifer is very skilled at repeating the do re mi fa so in her high, clear voice. She’s perfect for second chair. To me she’s my soprano first, and Jennifer second. She doesn’t like potatoes. Her favourite day is Christmas, Jesus’ birthday. Her favourite dessert is Christmas pudding, made with breadcrumbs, flour, eggs, beef suet and currants, and a splash of brandy. I love it too, but Christmas isn’t here yet. Now we have to practice! I point my stick – my baton, I should say – at Jennifer. She sings her part and smiles at me, crooning fa so as the others are singing do re mi. A maestro needs to be respected to run a choir. I am, above all, a master of the arts. I am skilled, and talented. The three others handle the bass and alto parts. I’d dearly like to introduce them to you, but unfortunately I have not been given leave to share their names. So there’s my choir: I, the maestro, James the tenor, Jennifer the soprano, and the rest. So our lives have gone for the past while.

Life in an orphanage isn’t without its gripes and hardships. Before we go to sleep in our dorm, I, the maestro, train my choir. As they lie there with their blankets pulled up around them, I point with my stick. James is my tenor. Jennifer is my soprano. And the three others, who have no lack of ambition, try their best to improve. The voice is an instrument, after all, and requires a great deal of practice. We rehearse, we attempt, and we try not to catch colds during these harsh winters. Tonight, Jennifer impressed me with her fa si. There must be a few octaves to her voice if she can get there. I, the maestro, am proud of her. In a few minutes, sister Regina will come and turn out the lights in the dorm. Every minute is accounted for in the orphanage. Tomorrow will be another day, and now it comes around. From the corridor, sister Regina shouts, “Lights out! Off to sleep now, the lot of you!” when the dorm finally plunges into darkness.

I close my eyes and think. My mind races under this damp winter duvet. I have no father, and I was not there when he died. I have no mother, and I will not see her draw her last breath. I have nobody to love, expect the members of my choir. They’re my friends. We are all orphans, and we help each other out every day. Whether it’s learning our letters, reading, writing between the lines, doing maths, peeling spuds, woodworking, crafting, or any of the other things we do. I am a ward of the State. One day, I’ll find a rich man who’ll give me work in his factory. I can do a lot of things. I’ve learned a lot here at Leytonstone. Otherwise I’ll work for some London family, cleaning their fireplace and washing dishes. Or so I hope. The day may come when I’m assigned to some financial institution. There are lots of rich men here in Great Britain, men who’ll pay you to shine their shoes or carry their bags. I’ll be more than a maestro, and I’ll have earned it. All of a sudden, I am woken from my thoughts by the sound of snoring.

It’s James again, keeping the rest of us orphans from slumber. Do re mi, he mutters in his sleep.

Alan Alfredo Geday