A Tender Thing Read online

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Emily Neuberger

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  ISBN 9780593084878

  ebook ISBN 9780593084885

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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  For my parents, Loretta and Carl

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Act One: The “I Want” Song

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Act Two: Love Songs

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Act Three: The Rehearsal Sequence

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Act Four: The Eleven O’Clock Number

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Finale

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  My heart wants to sing ev’ry song it hears.

  OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN II

  ACT ONE

  The “I Want” Song

  Chapter One

  The O’Hanlon farm was devoted mostly to pigs, with stalls for breeding and a large slaughterhouse on the west edge of the property. They also owned a horse barn, an apple orchard, a coop for chickens, and a field where they grew food for the animals. The farm was like a large body, clear yet relentless in its needs. While the animals’ appetites stayed consistent and the chores of the day never changed—only occasionally growing more difficult, due to weather or workers’ illness—Eleanor, who had spent nearly every day of her life on this farm, made mistakes. As often as she brushed the horses until they gleamed, she would also bring the chickens the wrong feed. She had a tendency to grow dreamy while picking apples and let too many wormy runts into the mix. She was not a stupid girl. But the place did not allow for a lack of attention, and though it had been her family’s farm since her grandfather bought it forty years earlier, Eleanor was never interested enough to learn its rhythms.

  Still, while Eleanor dreaded all of her farm chores, she never once neglected to feed the pigs. On sterile winter mornings, she resisted the pull of her bedclothes and stepped onto the chilled floorboards. It was easier in summer, when she woke with the sheets sticking to her back.

  On her twenty-first birthday, the June sun was hot. She carried heavy pails with rag-wrapped handles that wouldn’t cut into her palms. When the pigs noticed her approach, they swarmed the edge of the sty, their noises layering into a fugue of desperation.

  It was early, and dew still shone on the soybeans in the neighboring fields to the east. The land was flat and pale green, the sun sending rays straight into her eyes. Pink, fatty bodies rammed her legs; snouts nudged her hands and pockets in search of food. She greeted them each by name and dumped feed into the trough, rubber boots sinking into the mud. Eleanor was the one in the family who’d named the pigs. The names were born from a desire to bait rather than sentiment. It enraged her father. She hated the sows most—gelatinous, sedentary bodies reserved for reproduction and consumption, bellies already resembling Christmas hams. When Eleanor saw them, her tongue rose with sharp nausea.

  She slid out of the gate, using her thigh to keep the animals inside, and returned to the barn. A cat uncurled from its place on the supply shelf and darted away. The hay all around her was dry from the heat, which was good. Sometimes, on humid days, it was stuffy inside the barn. She closed the door so only a seam of light glowed through, inhaled, and began to sing.

  Even surrounded by the muffling hay, Eleanor’s voice filled the space. She always warmed up with ascending scales. Her voice was a strong soprano with a persistent rasp, as if she had just woken up. She’d learned to sing in church, but despite her talent she was passed over for solos. Her mother said everyone was jealous; her best friend, Rosie, said it was because her voice was too sexy for Jesus.

  As soon as Eleanor had gotten old enough to manage the morning chores alone, she’d started rushing through them to make sure she had time to sing before breakfast. Some days, her barn mornings were all the practice time she got. So even when she did not want to wake up, she did, because the only thing worse than rising at dawn to feed the pigs was a day without singing.

  After her warm-up, she chose a song: “If I Were a Bell” from Guys and Dolls. It had opened on Broadway eight years earlier, and she’d memorized it off the record. It was a bright song, tipsy and fun, and reminded Eleanor of New York, where she had never been but burned to go. She loved to imagine what the actress might have looked like onstage—how could a woman make a song come to life with nothing but her body and voice? How would she move her fingers, her eyebrows, her shoulders? Eleanor pretended she was singing to a man, her scene partner, and stepped as far into the character as she could. For half an hour, she lost herself in the material. Alone, she performed.

  Singing was innate to her, like walking, speaking, or sensing the temperature of the air. Her body had learned to sing before her mind caught on. Music was everywhere. Television jingles had enchanted her as a baby. Mass was fascinating—as long as the priest kept quiet. What was background noise to everyone else was a life-giving pulse to her. At parties, she had trouble keeping up in conversations, distracted by whatever record was spinning.

  She sang in the barn until her parents would come looking for her. They knew she liked to sing but would be angry if she were distracted during chores. Her practicing was private; she didn’t allow herself to feel ashamed that she was performing for bales of hay. She knew she could never become a performer, but in the barn, she trained as if she had a real chance. She found dignity in the rigor of her practice. Through routine and dedication came improvement, which awarded a satisfaction otherwise absent for her on the farm. Every day she worked, and during those minutes, she allowed herself to imagine that practicing might lead somewhere. It was impossible to work so hard without wanting to sing for an audience, though such a desire was dangerous to encourage. The possibility for heartbreak was overwhelming, but the fantasy was irresistible. But when she sang, she imagined herself selected from a pool of gir
ls to perform on Broadway. Today it was Guys and Dolls. Yesterday, The Music Man. And Gershwin, and Irving Berlin, Richard Rodgers, and Cole Porter. This time was hers.

  Eleanor walked back toward the house, its paint peeling, the sun displaying the spots that needed repair. The family dog, Lou, galloped toward her and butted her with his head. She pushed him down. Normally singing energized her, but today she felt a heavy pall. Perhaps it was because she was another year older—and each day that passed was another spent in Wisconsin and one less she might spend in New York. Another day with the pigs. She had a desperate, breathless feeling in her chest that morning, as she realized that however young she might be, her life was progressing in place. The barn mornings were hers, but they were not enough. Eleanor faced the possibility that they might have to be.

  She left her boots on the porch and opened the screen door, letting it slam behind her.

  Her mother was at the stove, sleeves rolled up as she poured grease into a tin on the counter. Eleanor’s stomach turned; she hated bacon.

  “There’s the birthday girl!”

  Eleanor could have rested her chin on top of her mother’s head. Instead, she poured coffee.

  “Rosie and I are going to the movies tonight.”

  Her mother made a noise. “With anyone special? Might be nice to dress up.”

  Eleanor pulled bread from the box and ignored her. Growing up, Eleanor’s mother had described her as “the marrying kind.” She was tall, with a solid figure softened by large breasts and bearing hips and reddish hair, the tone enhanced by her freckles and a tendency to blush. Her features were pretty but generic. Her appearance called to mind sensible girls rather than stunners. The only thing that distinguished her was her voice. It was low and husky, and made men turn around when she spoke in stores. When she was speaking, it was more interesting than average, enough to earn a double take. But when she sang, for all of her uncertainties, even Eleanor knew it was something.

  It was not, however, enough for her mother.

  “You know, your father and I will be the only people without grandchildren.”

  “Surely not the only ones.”

  Her mother intensified her whisking, scraping against the metal bowl. With another slam, her father entered, forehead already shining. “Another hot one!”

  He presented her with a flat, light package that Eleanor knew would be a record. Probably one she already owned. She guarded against disappointment and tore the paper. Guys and Dolls.

  “Saw it in Green Bay last month.” He was so proud; she felt embarrassment for him. “This is the one you wanted, isn’t it?”

  She had hoped for My Fair Lady. Her parents understood only so much about musicals and failed to grasp any differentiation. At first Eleanor had accepted this, but lately she felt as if it was a willful decision not to learn more and engage.

  After breakfast, Eleanor took the truck into town to Miltenberg’s Music. Owned and curated by her friend Pat Miltenberg, it was the only music shop for miles around.

  Eleanor had first visited when she was nine. Her mother was getting her hair done and Eleanor grew fidgety. Armed with a nickel for candy, Eleanor passed Miltenberg’s. Aisles of records were lined up like rows of corn. The shop owner was behind the desk, penciling notes in a ledger, squinting despite his small glasses. The place smelled dusty. Her footsteps were swallowed by the cardboard record sleeves and sheet music. Her parents put on a record of Christmas carols a few times each December, and apart from the occasional pop tune, Eleanor didn’t even know there were other kinds of music.

  She read the cards stuck between the records: Opera, Classical, Jazz, Popular Music, Hymns, Show Tunes. She flipped the records one by one, awed by the colorful cardboard sleeves, amazed there was enough music to fill an entire store.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  Eleanor pulled her hands to her sides when the owner approached. “I’m only looking.”

  He was graying and plump, a larger man than the farmworkers she was used to, and wore a pilled blue sweater with corduroy pants light at the knees. He smelled of tobacco and something sweet and herbal. Though he was middle-aged, he gave off the energy of someone even older. Eleanor was told to be quiet in the company of adults, but he crouched to meet her eyes. “That’s all right, dear. What kind of music do you like?”

  Eleanor beheld all the rows of records, quivering.

  “My name is Pat.” He shook her hand like she was a grown-up. “Let’s find out what you like.”

  Eleanor followed as he browsed different genres, debating for long moments before selecting which record to present. No one had ever taken her so seriously.

  When he was searching Irish Ballads, she spoke up. “Sometimes I sing in church. I like that a lot.”

  “No doubt you do.” He pulled his glasses down. His nose was round, spongy with pores. “I have an idea.” He led her back to the show tunes and picked through a stack. He freed one from its sleeve, pulled the needle off a turning record, and set the new one to spin.

  Eleanor swayed on her feet, unsure of herself. She mimicked Pat’s posture: leaned against the counter, ankles crossed, eyes closed.

  Then the music came through. The moment it hit the air, Eleanor straightened her back, skin turning bumpy. It was a brassy sound, modern, spirited but sincere, with humor and vulnerability. Her body reacted instantly—it was like eating a sweet, or petting the new spring kittens. She didn’t need time to decipher her feelings. The pleasure was instant and right.

  “What’s this?”

  “‘They Can’t Take That Away from Me’ by George and Ira Gershwin.” Pat must have seen how her eyes brightened. He began to gesture, his voice growing more animated. “Pair of brothers who got their start in Tin Pan Alley—do you know where that is?”

  Pat told her about the writers in New York, collaborating in tiny apartments. He told her about vendors selling frankfurters on the street and how thousands of people lived on top of each other in buildings taller than church steeples. Writers and musicians lived there, but also students, fashion designers, finance moguls, chefs, and people who enjoyed living someplace where interesting things happened every moment. He’d been there once, years earlier. “I loved it,” he said. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened. “But it wasn’t for me.” Eleanor imagined Tin Pan Alley as a factory, with actresses going down the assembly line, men switching out their lyrics as they passed. Pat said it was more human than that. New York was the place to be if you loved musicals. Lyricists partnered with composers until they found a match, writing for stage works filled with drama and dance. People built relationships, and out of them, the art was born. Each word, each note, each harmony was as deliberate as a surgical stitch. Eleanor had seen just one musical on television—The Wizard of Oz. By the time her mother found her later that afternoon, Pat had gifted her three records and awakened her to a whole world of music and stories.

  From then on, she spent all of her pocket money and free time at Pat’s, leaning against the counter, begging for more of all he knew. He told her anecdotes about actresses, stories gleaned from newspapers during years when he’d had no one to discuss them with. As Eleanor grew older, she memorized every lyric to more than forty shows. Instead of attending school football games and corn mazes and dances in the town hall, she listened to music. No peer-approved pleasure could rival the thrill that rose in her body when she placed the needle down on a new record. In order to afford them, she worked as a babysitter, music teacher, and seamstress. New records were not objects, but events.

  Today, her twenty-first birthday, she found Pat unloading a box of sheet music, one hand on his lower back as he lifted. His store had grown gradually more packed, since he could not stand to throw away music. Every year, he squished his inventory to accommodate the swell. It was tidy if one looked closely—Pat took meticulous care of his merchandise—but at first the pla
ce appeared shambolic. Every time she smelled cardboard from the inventory boxes, she felt calm. Eleanor loved this place. Pat was one of the few people she’d met who abided musicals at all, and the only person who loved them as much as she did.

  “Eleanor! My favorite customer.” He left the stacked boxes and met her by the register.

  She showed him the Guys and Dolls record. “Could you sell it?”

  He turned it over, looking for bends. “We certainly can’t let it go to waste. Ah—look what I got in Monday.” He presented her with the My Fair Lady record. Eleanor gasped and held out her hands. “I saved it for you. Happy birthday, my dear.”

  Flipping to the back, she read the cast list. Julie Andrews. Rex Harrison. Brooks Atkinson had called Andrews magnificent. She was very young—twenty. She’d starred in the television version of Cinderella, which Eleanor had watched with her face a foot from the screen. Hadn’t Ms. Andrews been unknown before all that? Did regular girls have places on the stage?

  She pushed the record back to Pat. “Put it on! I want to listen with you.”

  He slipped it out of the sleeve. “Ms. Andrews is astonishing.”

  “And practically an unknown!” Eleanor said.

  He made a face. “From the vaudeville circuit, I think. One of the kid hoofers.”

  “That’s right.” Eleanor knocked Pat’s desk with her fist. So this Andrews girl had been on Broadway before—a child star with parents who knew the ropes and brought her up to act.

  Pat crossed his arms, and folds of skin scrunched up at his elbows. She never tired of watching him: Pat listened like it contained an entire meal.

  It was too early to tell anything else about the music, but she loved Andrews’s voice. Eleanor needed at least three listens, straight through, before music began to digest in her brain. Only after she sat away from it, and a melody lingered in her head, did she know if it had caught. Then she could return to the record, warmed to it, primed for a deep listen. So far, Rodgers and Hammerstein had done that with Oklahoma!, Carousel, and, her favorite, South Pacific. She adored them, but they were second best. The man whose work she would follow to the ends of the earth was Don Mannheim.