Free The Song of Hartgrove Hall by Natasha Solomons

you enjoyed a decent war. It’s your favourite spectator sport after the Badbury point-to-point. You could put a fiver on each way,’ says Jack.
    I glance at him in alarm, presuming he drank too much at dinner, but to my surprise he seems quite sober.
    George looks worried. ‘Steady on, old chap,’ he mutters.
    The General chooses to ignore Jack and simply carries on. He regards a second voice in a conversation as unnecessary. Company is present merely to provide him with an audience.
    â€˜It’s the ingratitude of the bloody Jews that galls me. Bloody ingratitude.’
    â€˜What would you have them be grateful to us for?’ asks Jack sweetly, and with that I know the conversation is becoming dangerous but I’m not quite sure why.
    Edie places her hand firmly on Jack’s knee. ‘Would you mind ringing for a glass of water, darling? I’m terribly dry.’
    While Jack reaches for the bell to ring for Chivers, Edie turns to me. ‘May I take a look at the song?’
    To my chagrin, I grasp that she’s asking only in order to alter the course of the conversation. They all watch as I pull out the manuscript book from the cubbyhole. Edie shuffles along the sofa to make room, patting the spot between her and Jack. I squeeze in, jammed between them both, and Edie opens the book. It’s a battered, leather-bound volume that was once blue but has faded to grey.
    â€˜There are heaps of songs in here,’ she says.
    â€˜Nearly a hundred.’
    â€˜How long have you been collecting songs, Fox?’ she asks.
    â€˜Ages. I have to write down a song if I haven’t heard it before, otherwise it buzzes around like a mosquito in my brain. My problem isn’t remembering tunes, it’s trying to forget them.’ I shift on the sofa, suddenly self-conscious, and wish the others weren’t here. ‘I always keep an eye out. Or rather an ear, I suppose. Gather up what I find.’
    Edie laughs. ‘You make it sound as if songs simply sprouted like berries on a hedgerow and sat there until you plucked them and popped them into your book.’
    I laugh. I never really envisioned anyone else being interested in my song habit, far less a woman. Yet her enthusiasm appears sincere, and little spots of colour are daubed on each cheek. Jack fidgets and yawns, and George fiddles with the fire. I wish they’d jolly well leave us to it. Edie leafs through the pages, turning them carefully as though each one is a precious, fragile thing. She pauses, running her finger along the last.
    â€˜I’ve never heard this one before. It’s the one from this morning?’
    I nod.
    â€˜Well, I’ve sung hundreds of folk songs. I even recorded a few—’
    â€˜I know. I have some of your recordings.’
    She smiles. ‘Of course you do. Anyway, I’ve not come across this one until today. I don’t know, but I think it’s possible that no one’s collected it before.’
    I have a tingle in my belly; the satisfaction of discovery. Like an anthropologist rummaging through the jungle for lost tribes, I’ve found something ancient, as yet unrecorded and unfixed.
    Edie smiles at me and returns the book. ‘It’s an odd tune. Tugs at one. It’s always nice to have made a find, don’t you think?’
    â€˜He’s a clever old thing,’ says Jack. ‘Much brighter than the rest of us. None of us is musical in the least.’
    â€˜Mother sang,’ says George.
    No one speaks. I’m suddenly aware of the crackle and spit of logs on the fire. The General stiffens and blinks. Once. Twice. Jack grips Edie’s hand more tightly.
    The silence jangles.
    â€˜She sang to me,’ says George, insistent now. ‘And to Jack. And Little Fox.’
    â€˜What did she sing?’ I ask and it’s suddenly desperately important that I know.
    George shakes his head. ‘Can’t remember. I don’t have a head