But there was one instrument with which I was familiar. It was mandatory for all pupils to spend three years learning an orchestral instrument at Felching Orchard and I had chosen timpani. Known as ‘timps’ to the experts and ‘kettle drums’ to the great unwashed, I felt it was an instrument through which I could truly express myself. And anyone who thought that beating a felt-covered stick against a piece of skin stretched over a huge copper kettle lacked finesse, compared to scraping a horsehair bow over a stretched piece of catgut, could take his pansy violin and stick it up his arse.
There were six timpani around me, with just a small gap behind. The concert hall lights gleamed in the highly polished copper and the white skins were stretched steel-tight over the drums, a couple of them translucent with tension.
My body felt swollen in all the right places. I felt I’d become even more handsome, as if that were possible. All eyes were on me and I felt like a god. Christ, it was warm though. I could feel a river of sweat running down the insides of my arms.
“Leader! Your finest A please!”
The lead violin eyed me warily and bowed a note. I took my sticks and belted out a roll on each of the drums, from left to right.
“Absolutely fucking perfect!” I shouted. It suddenly occurred to me I might have overdosed on Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel. Would I start foaming at the nose mid-performance? Perhaps my head would simply explode, showering the orchestra in blood and gore. I laughed maniacally and looked about me at the ranks of strings and woodwind.
“Christ, I feel incredible! And you all look magnificent!” I stared down at a mousy-looking woman with a fringe, sitting in the front row of cellos. “Hold onto your skirts, madam, and get ready for the ride of your life!” I roared. A look of appalled horror crossed her face and she quickly looked down.
The conductor nodded to me, then looked to the lead violin, raised his baton, and we were off. The violins and cellos launched into the opening bars and were soon joined by the woodwind and the louder brass behind me. This was a piece I knew backwards. The Felching Orchard school orchestra had performed it to the parents when I was fourteen, and I’d had to spend two bloody evenings every week over the summer, cooped up in the school hall practising with the rest of the swots, when I could have been drinking scrumpy on Hampstead Heath with St Hilda’s finest talent, perfecting French manoeuvres and brassiere removal.
Around half a minute of stirring, martial music later, my moment arrived. I raised my mallets and belted the drum heads for all I was worth. Momentarily, I was transported back to Felching Orchard, the tinny trumpets belting out an off-key challenge and my own drums thumping out a reply. But this time it was different, the orchestra was world-class and far louder. The brass section roared and I boomed back in return. The strings soared and I thundered in response, a fantastical giant raking his vast fists through rainbow clouds.
Then, with a triumphant horn blast, the first movement was over. I leant forward, clamping my hands over the drum heads to cut the reverberation. I felt their damp heat radiate back as they vibrated beneath my fingers like a heaving, sweating breast in the throes of passion. But, Gott im Himmel!, I was boiling alive in my penguin suit. I feared for my heart, turbo-charged by Madame Joubert’s Karoo marching powder. There was only one thing for it. As the rest of the orchestra turned their pages I wriggled out of my jacket and flung it over my shoulder.
“You fucker!” shouted someone behind me and I turned to see a tuba player struggling to free his head from my sodden jacket.
“Keep it, you brass bastard!” I shouted, my head buzzing with pleasure.
A ripple of applause reached me from the audience. I was surprised – one isn’t supposed to clap between movements – then I realised it was appreciation for my jacket trick. Well, every little helps. I wondered whether the old fuckers in their purple cloaks would appreciate it too. Somehow I doubted it.
But I had no time to ponder – the second movement was under way. This was a touch slower, less martial. It still required a great deal of drum-pummelling, however, and by the time it was over my white dress shirt was slick with sweat. A few seconds to catch my breath, then back to it.
The third movement starts with a rattling salute of timpani and horns, and I was soon twisting and turning, hammering the drums one side then the other, like a frenzied jungle explorer beating off an army of snakes. The sweat ran down my arms and out from under my cuffs, dripping onto the timpani heads. As I beat each skin, the sweat splashed back into my face and sprayed the nearby strings section. The mousy cellist was looking particularly damp, her sad little fringe sticking to her forehead like a homeless toupee.
Then the third movement was complete and, after a few seconds of panting, it was straight into the fourth, this one faster still. As I writhed from side to side, my sodden mallets splashing against the drum heads in front and behind me, I felt as though a wave of molten lava was creeping down my face, over my neck and coalescing around my heart. It entombed my chest and edged lower still, constricting my waist, curling round my loins, then my thighs. This is it, I thought, I’m having a fucking seizure! I’m going to expire, right here, just five minutes from my chance of a purple cloak and lifelong wine-based adulation.
“Save me, oh gods!” I shouted out loud. Then, in the ten-second pause during that first minute of the fourth movement, as the horns blasted away behind me with a little fanfare of their own, I realised what I must do to avoid certain death. I ripped my dress shirt open, the buttons ricocheting off the timps and into the violins. A quick twist at each wrist and my cufflinks were released. Then I lifted the shirt over my head and flung it high over the conductor’s head, where it snagged on the pinecone-headed staff of an astonished bearded guard. The audience roared their approval and I retrieved my sticks from my back pockets, just as my part resumed.
And a humdinger of a part it was too, the horns blasting a salute as I thundered back. Then it was on to the highlight of the piece – the drum solo. I drummed like a man possessed, my magnificent bare chest flexing and my carved biceps gleaming under the theatre lights. Waves of pleasure cascaded from my head to my clenched hands and crashed off the drums, bathing my body in an aura of ecstatic pleasure. My body was experiencing almost orgasmic pulses of intensity and I had to resist the impulse to whip out my magnificent third mallet and wop it repeatedly on the drum before me.
I’m not sure how long the solo lasted and I may have elaborated the part somewhat. The conductor gave up after a minute or so and simply stared at me, gobsmacked. And who could blame him? I was a Greek god, a drummer fit to lead a regiment into battle. My sticks had become great axes, beheading foul demons as I raced over the plains in my chariot. By the gods – I would have victory even if I had to rip it from the judges’ necks with my teeth!
I became dimly aware that the strings and wind instruments had joined in once more and I took care to focus on the notes again. The movement came to an end and I shook myself like a wet dog, spraying a gallon of sweat over the nearest musicians. I could see the audience were on their feet, spellbound.
The fifth and final movement began with another drum solo. I writhed like some vast, muscular python, beating the timps behind me with backward blows over my head, using my elbows for the drums to my sides. I whipped my head round and round, mainly to stop the sweat running into my eyes, but also for visual effect. The orchestra joined me for the final few seconds of the finale then with a huge drum roll, it was over!
I stood with my arms raised and sticks outstretched, to deafening silence from the audience – but only for an instant. The entire hall exploded in a storm of applause, shouts and screams. The swinging sweat ran into my eyes and I was blinded. I groped around and my hand found the sheet music of one of the woodwind players. I wiped my face and looked up to the judges – but to my shock they were gone and the throne was empty. Had they walked out in disgust? Too much Felix beef for you, you effete trollops?
Then I saw the Invocator
striding onto the stage, arms outstretched and face beaming under his purple hood. The other judges hurried in his wake and the violins stood and stepped back, making a path for his approach. He swept past the conductor, who looked to be suffering from post-traumatic stress, and I kicked one of the timpani aside to meet him in the centre of the stage.
“Exquisite! I have never seen the temple drums so owned! Oh my boy, my boy! Tell me you are not Rostam, Lord of Zabulistan?” He embraced me passionately, nuzzling his stubbly, wrinkled face into my chest and attempting to insert the bony fingers of one hand down the back of my trousers. Thank the Holy Mary that I’d fastened my belt nice and tight, I’m rather selective about who I allow to breach my peach, if you know what I’m saying.
The Invocator suddenly broke away, his eyes wide open and an even wider grin on his ancient face. His eyes looked down to my trousers and I realised, not for the first time that evening, that I had an enormous erection. This Madame Joubert’s was definitely a higher octane recipe than the one that old du Plessis had given me.
“My boy! You have peaked!” From the look on his face, I thought he was going to grab hold and spin me around, singing the chorus to ‘Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush’ but, luckily for me, Frog joined us at that point, a purple robe in his arms. The audience roared its approval as he placed the robe around my glistening shoulders and I raised a clenched fist by way of salute.
I rejoined Valentina and Hugo at the base of the stage as the Invocator declared that Minstrel Felix Hart had pleased the gods. Both my fellow Minstrels gazed at me, awestruck, then the three of us were given another standing ovation as we left the hall together, a phalanx of bearded staff-bearers surrounding us as a guard of honour.
Quite reasonably we were permitted to leave following our ordeal, rather than having to make small talk with the wider body of Minstrels. First we were shown into a vast cloakroom, where all one thousand Minstrels had their own golden coat hanger next to a brass plate, engraved with their name followed by the official abbreviation, MinWin. We duly hung our purple gowns next to our names (they must have made plates for all fifteen of us and then thrown twelve away), retrieved our personal possessions and spilled out into the cold Covent Garden night, I holding my button-less shirt closed over my bare chest. Hugo vanished back to his home in East London while Valentina and I shared a black taxi back to hers.
She confessed she’d noticed the bulging trousers throughout my performance and suggested that if I could stand to attention through a timpani concerto, I could manage a little longer back at her place. Well who was I to argue? And so, like two Minstrels at the top of their game, we made sweet music until the cold January sun rose the following day.
4.4
Asti Spumante
The following Monday I glided into work, as smug as a Jaipur prince, a huge smile plastered across my face.
“Felix!” squealed Patricia Hocksworth as I swaggered up to the wine team. “You’re a Minstrel! That’s so amazing!” She dashed up to me and gave me a big hug.
“Thanks Trisha. It won’t change me, I promise.” Like bloody hell it won’t. I’ll have another thirty grand and a better fucking buying region for starters, I thought.
“I know, you’re always so modest, Felix. We’ve got two Minstrels in the team now, that’s so exciting!”
Joan peered at me over her glasses, a genuine smile on her face. Christ, things really had changed.
“I wish you could tell us what happened, Joan,” said Trisha, nudging her.
“The omertà di vino forbids it Trisha, as you well know. All I can say is that Felix was magnificent.” She gave me a wink and I smirked back. “Who’s next then?” she asked. “How are your studies going, Timmy? George?”
Durange gurned and wriggled in his seat. It must have been agony for him to consider how far I’d leapt in just two years, and that I now outranked him.
“The Minstrel of Wine qualification isn’t for everyone, Trisha,” I murmured. “It’s not fair to expect it of everybody. We need a mix of talents, and George and Tim perform essential roles in the team.” Durange grimaced while Bolus’s face went puce. I sat down, pleased at the effect I’d had.
A strong forearm wrapped itself round my throat and started to throttle me. “Who’s a clever boy then? Ha!”
I hoped the Head of Execution wouldn’t choke me to death before I received my pay rise. “Morning sir,” I croaked.
“Looks like we need a little restructuring, now that Hart here’s put some lead in his pencil,” said Bannerman. “All of you in my office at ten sharp, right?” He released me and I massaged my bruised windpipe.
At ten we trooped into Bannerman’s office and stood in a line by the wall. “Right. Firstly, congratulations to Felix Hart. You are forthwith promoted to Senior Buyer.”
“Well done Felix,” chirped Trisha.
“Don’t muck it up!” Bannerman grinned, grabbing my shoulder and shaking it, as though he was trying to dislocate it.
“I won’t sir.”
“Bolus, you’re going to buy spirits, right?”
“But sir, I like wine,” he moaned.
The Head of Execution must have anticipated his whinge, because he powered his fist into Bolus’s stomach. “Ha! Never mind that, we’ve got a new buyer starting next month. She’ll look after Australia and New Zealand,” he grinned, gold fillings twinkling, as Bolus doubled up, coughing. “Any more questions?”
“You’ve still got Eastern Europe, George,” I reminded him. He slowly straightened, giving me a dagger look, his face even more gammon-red than usual.
“Durange! You’ve looked after Italy for a long time,” said Bannerman.
“But sir!” he whined, holding his arms up to ward off a beating, “I’m just turning Italy around.”
“Ha! You’ve been turning it around for three years. We need someone who’s going to actually do something!” He looked at me. “Hart, you get Italy in addition to South Africa.”
Hallelujah! The best wine country in the world! I made a mental note to book a flight to Milan straight away.
“In exchange, you can give Portugal and Germany to Durange.”
Farewell, dear Portugal, I thought. I’ll miss those motorboat rides up the River Douro with my Port supplier’s Head of Export, her long dark hair flowing in the wind. And Germany too, those chilly December nights curled up in a Rhineland schloss, fire roaring, just leather-clad Stefanie and a bratwurst for company.
“You’re a Senior Buyer so you need more than just two regions to look after. Any requests?”
“How about Champagne?” I suggested. It hadn’t escaped my attention that Durange got all the best invitations to the grand prix, polo, tennis and anything where there was a lot of red-hot totty. This, of course, was due to his Champagne suppliers sponsoring those very events. Frankly, such glamour was utterly wasted on greasy Timmy, it was time for Felix to assume his rightful place at the season’s top-notch fixtures. I was looking forward to ringing super-sexy Sandra at Paris-Blois Brands and giving her the news.
“Good idea. Hart looks after Champagne with immediate effect,” confirmed Bannerman.
“Nooo!” shouted Durange in agony, dropping his guard for a moment during which the Head of Execution’s fist made positive contact with his solar plexus. We filed out of the room and returned to our desks, Trisha helping Timmy Durange who was hunched over in pain as he coughed and wept.
“I think Felix should sit opposite me, now that he’s a Minstrel,” declared Joan a little later.
“Good idea,” agreed Trisha. Poor Timmy rose from his window seat, with its wonderful view of the river, and limped over to my far less attractive seat next to the walkway. I think it’s fair to say his day wasn’t working out as well as mine.
I received my salary increase notification the following week, and a handsome improvement it was too. I also received a text from Sandra from Paris-Blois Brands, inviting me to the Monaco Grand Prix later that year.
Clear
ly, not everyone in the team was a winner, but it’s impossible to please everyone. But yours truly was certainly winning, and that was the important thing.
***
I made it my business to travel the length and breadth of Italy over the next few months, rekindling old acquaintances and making a fair few new ones. The vines woke from their winter slumber, new canes sprouting from woody stems, pale young leaves unfurling in the early spring sunlight. As the late frosts died away and the season warmed, tiny berries appeared on the branches, now lush with leaves. Spring turned to summer and the tight berries swelled into voluptuous grapes, darkening in colour. And, before we knew it, autumn and the harvest were upon us, the vineyards a frenzy of picking and pressing, the tanks of grape juice bubbling with magic as they metamorphosed into wine.
A balmy, early September evening found me on the veranda of Sergio Morelli’s winery, nestling in the hills above the picturesque Piedmontese village of Asti. A few dozen miles away the vine-covered foothills rose to become the Alps, the rugged slopes streaked with forests of green pines and the taller peaks permanently capped with a crust of snow.
I held a flute of pale sparkling wine up to the late sun, admiring its clarity, before lowering it and inhaling deeply from the glass, my nose nearly touching the fizzing nectar. A large sip and a careful inhalation through pursed lips directed a stream of air through the wine, drawing the bouquet to the back of my throat. A glorious, mouth-watering sensation of sweet, grapey sherbet washed over my tongue.
“Classic Asti,” I affirmed. “Sergio, you truly make the best fizz this side of Epernay.” I swallowed the wine – it was gone seven p.m. and the time for spitting was over.
Morelli beamed.
“But we need to talk pricing,” I smiled. “More and more of our customers are buying drier Prosecco these days, and our business is ten percent down on last year.”
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