When my father died, in August 2006, I was tasked by my mother to phone a list of friends and family to break the news. My father did not die young – he was 95 – and still, I was overcome by tears in my first calls. I quickly adjusted my approach – a quick “Hello. How are you?” was somehow enough for me to be able to break the news without tears. Without exception those people I phoned responded by telling a story from their treasure chest of experiences and I gained many new perspectives on the man who was my father.
This evening, I am shocked by the news which has just reached me of the death of Richard Hickox on Sunday, 23rd November, 2008. When I joined the London Symphony Chorus in 1986 Richard was still, in the eyes of some, the new kid on the block as the chorus’ Music Director. Since that time, no year has passed without us raising our voices in response to Richard’s baton. As the news sinks in I, too, touch base with the treasure chest of my experiences.
They were not always pleasant! I remember a time when Richard, dissatisfied in rehearsal with the performance of the semi chorus had us, one by one, sing the pianissimo top G he wanted in front of our fellow singers. Standing at one end of the row I could feel a rising tension as I waited my turn. I was overcome with relief when one of my fellow sopranos told him, “Richard, I’m feeling too nervous right now to attempt this note”. It seemed to me that Richard came to his senses in this moment. I didn’t have to sing the note.
Even my most recent experience of singing with Richard was not ideal. A combination of a late change to our rehearsal schedule and a prior commitment meant that I missed two important rehearsals and had just one hour’s tutti rehearsal before our recent performance of Vaughan William’s Dona Nobis Pacem. Seated as I was in the middle of the front row I knew that, no matter how confident I felt, Richard would be seeking out my eyes, for he seemed to draw reassurance from the full attention of the long-standing members of the chorus – the “old timers”. I gave him my eyes – though not always the right notes.
To grieve is also to celebrate and as I write I am surveying the vast repertoire of music I performed with Richard and thinking of the rich fullness of my experience. I feel a great sense of loss – surely his death came too soon! I especially feel for Pamela, his wife, and for his three children. And I feel the depth of gratitude which comes with so many memories of so much music making. I feel especially grateful to have given him my eyes one last time. May he rest in peace.