by Jilly Cooper
She had, however, graciously invited the ladies of the orchestra to hang their dresses in the Long Gallery.
‘Is that a genuine Picasso?’ asked Nellie, as she peered in awe into the le-ounge.
‘No, no,’ giggled Candy, ‘look on the back. It says “Do Not Freeze, This Side Up”.’
‘Admiring my Picarso,’ said a loud voice behind them. ‘It was a silver wedding-gift from my late hubby.’
‘She’s even matched her grand piano exactly to the panelling,’ Clare told Dixie as she returned from the house, ‘and every piece of ghastly furniture is for sale.’
‘You don’t think an old bag like Piggy Porker would pass up an opportunity for commercial gain,’ said Dixie. ‘You could probably buy that oak tree for twenty grand.’
‘I’ll pay Sonny twenty grand to stay away,’ said Clare. ‘He’s been so preoccupied with his première he even forgot to buy Mumsy a birthday card.’
Today was also the birthday of Ninion, Second Oboe and oppressed partner of Militant Moll.
‘Just proves what utter crap astrology is,’ sneered Carmine Jones getting his trumpet out of its case, ‘when a thug like Piggy Porker and a wimp like Ninion have birthdays on the same day.’
Ninion ignored the crack, but his hands shook as he read his and Mrs Parker’s horoscope in the Rutminster Echo, which was part owned by Mrs Parker anyway, and which said it would be a good day for fireworks.
Underneath his mild blinking, field-mouse exterior, Ninion was hopping mad. Second Oboe often doubles up as cor anglais, but Knickers and Abby had humiliatingly not thought he was good enough to play the long ravishing cor anglais solo in William Tell, and brought in Carmine Jones’s wife, Catherine, as an extra.
Militant Moll should have been pleased a woman had been given the job. Instead she berated Ninion for not standing up for his rights.
‘You are quite capable of playing that solo, Nin. Why d’you let people push you around? Catherine Jones is a drip not to have left Carmine years ago.’
Moll was taking Ninion to a woman composers’ workshop in Bath as a birthday treat. Ninion brooded; he was fed up with women.
The surrounding fields were silvered with dew as the orchestra tuned up, but no breeze ruffled the forget-me-nots languishing on the river-bank. As Flora returned a dripping Nugent to Viking, she breathed in a heady scent. At first she thought it came from a nearby lime tree. Then she realized it was Blue’s aftershave, which he never wore normally, and that he had put on a ravishing new duck-egg-blue shirt. Blue was so handsome, quiet and dependable, but there was a sadness about him. Flora wondered if he were gay and secretly in love with Viking. He never had any women around.
‘God, it’s baking,’ said Viking, who was sharing his breakfast of a pork pie and a Kit-Kat with Mr Nugent. ‘Oh, go away,’ he snapped at Fat Isobel, who’d been panting after him like a St Bernard since he’d taken her out for a drink.
Flora looked up at the house. ‘How the hell did Piggy Porker get permission to build such an excrescence in such a beautiful park?’ she asked ‘Every councillor has his price,’ explained Viking contemptuously. ‘All the fat cats on Rutminster Council, who you’ll see guzzling champagne this evening probably received a nice nest-egg in a Swiss bank or holiday home in Barbados. I wonder if Alan Cardew, the planning officer, would enjoy knowing that his wife Lindy is currently being knocked off by Carmine Jones.’
‘How could she? He’s loathsome. Imagine that brickred sneering face kissing you.’
‘That’s why Lindy was so livid when Abby sacked her from the choir. She can’t pretend to be sloping off to choir practice any more.’
‘All right, let’s get started,’ Abby had arrived, looking deathly pale after a sleepless night wondering whether to do a runner rather than be made over by Peggy’s beauticians. She was wearing a dark red vest and black bicycle shorts, and her lips tightened as she saw Flora gossiping with Viking.
The orchestra quickly whizzed through William Tell. Catherine Jones wasn’t turning up until the concert, so Ninion had to deputize for her, which made him crosser than ever. The fireworks would be let off after the trumpet fanfare during the rousing finale, which everyone knew because it had once been The Lone Ranger’s signature tune.
Fortunately the electrician who’d spent the morning hammering Roman candles, rockets and Catherine wheels onto posts liked music and knew exactly when to start the display.
‘Miss Rosen, we’re ready for you. I’m Crystelle by the way,’ called out a Parker beautician, who hovered, smiling like a crocodile. Her make-up was so thick you could have chucked rocks at it.
For a second Abby stared down at her, terrified and proud, Sidney Carton at the scaffold. Then she gathered up her sticks and her scores.
‘Please don’t ruin her, she’s so beautiful,’ called out Flora as Crystelle frogmarched Abby back to the house.
‘You need your eyes tested, Flora,’ said Carmine Jones nastily.
‘And you need a face transplant,’ shouted Flora.
The orchestra roared with laughter; singly most of them were too frightened to take on Carmine, whose face was now engorged with rage like a slice of black pudding.
It was now time for Sonny to take a last rehearsal of his Eternal Triangle for orchestra, cow bells and yodeller. A little man with a very large ego, Sonny (or rather Mumsy) had paid for several extra rehearsals. Many contemporary composers prefer to be programmed with other twentieth-century music. Not Sonny.
‘I’m not frightened of comparison with the great masters.’
Crash, bang, plink, plonk, went the orchestra. Sonny, a hopeless conductor, looked as though he were swimming through deep water and occasionally spearing a jelly fish.
Nor did he know anything about music, but fancying Viking, whose body was turning dark gold above his dirty white shorts, called out: ‘Four bars after twenty, Horns, marked gestopft. Could you play it on your own?’
‘Gestopft’ means putting the right hand up the bell of the horn to produce a muted buzzing sound. Viking, however, muttered to his section, ‘OKlads, play flat out.’
The next moment five horns blared out making two nearby pigeons and the rest of the orchestra jump out of their skins.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ spluttered Hilary, who hadn’t imagined she’d need her industrial ear plugs in the open air.
Sonny, however, was in raptures.
‘Splendid, Viking, splendid.’ He thrust forward a circle formed by his first finger and thumb.
‘Nor does the silly bugger realize that the trumpet’s been transposed into the wrong key by the copyist for the last three rehearsals,’ said Viking scornfully.
‘He’s been too busy jogging so he can rush up onto the platform in time to catch the applause,’ said Blue, shaking water out of his tuning slide.
Sonny had also been active organizing a claque of comely youths from the soft-furnishing department to provide a standing ovation.
‘Now, really clap your hands, boys, shout, “Bravo” and stamp your feet.’
Sonny’s favourite, however, was rumoured to be a plump young man with soft brown curls in all the right places, who was going to dress in lederhosen and provide the yodelling tonight.
At ten o’clock, by which time the temperature had soared into the nineties, the orchestra were released, many of them to sunbathe so they would look good in their summer uniform of white dinner-jackets, or for women, dresses in a single colour, whose skirts must fall at least nine inches below the knee.
As Rutshire was playing Yorkshire on the cricket ground next to the cathedral, Old Henry and Old Cyril found a couple of deckchairs. As he opened a can of beer, Old Cyril thanked God for the millionth time that Viking and Blue had carried him through his audition.
Having spent the morning on the telephone shouting at his builder who had omitted to put a staircase in a new office block: ‘Now, that’s one I really can’t lie about, George,’ George Hungerford had also hoped to slope off to the cric
ket ground to cheer on his home county.
Coming out of his office, however, he had found Eldred, the First Clarinet, in tears. They were so badly in debt that his wife had left him.
‘You better tell me about it,’ sighed George, going back into his office.
Carmine Jones’s face grew even redder as he pleasured Lindy Cardew, wife of Rutminster’s planning officer, on her peach nylon sheets.
‘I’ll get you back into the choir, Lindy, if it kills me.’
Poor Catherine Jones had no time to practise her cor anglais, she had been far too busy washing and ironing Carmine’s dress-shirt and getting suspicious-looking grass stains out of his white tuxedo, and sobbing over the primrose-yellow taffeta dress with huge puffed sleeves which had been fashionable the year the Princess of Wales had married Prince Charles, the same year she had married Carmine. Apart from a black polyester shift to wear to winter concerts, she had not had a new dress since then.
Tonight’s outfit had to be one colour. Cutting the orange fire bird made of sequins from the yellow taffeta bodice as she shoved baked beans down fractious children, Catherine had jagged a large hole in the bodice. At this rate, she wouldn’t have time to wash her hair. As Carmine was pathologically stingy he had ordered Catherine to come home immediately after William Tell to relieve the babysitter and not even stay for drinks in the interval. Catherine fingered a large bruise on her left cheek and hoped make-up would hide it.
The soloist in Liszt’s Piano Concerto that evening was Benny Basanovich, a half-French, half-Russian pig, who could only play loudly. He therefore chose pieces (and women, said Viking) where he could bang away. Good looking in a brutal fashion, Benny had thick black ram’s curls falling to his shoulders, a hooked nose, slanting eyes beneath thick brown eyebrows and a big, light red mouth. A Shepherd Denston artist, he’d always been wildly jealous of Abby because she was more famous than him, but he got much more work than he deserved because Howie fancied him.
After a brief telephone call to Lionel, both men decided that Lionel would follow Benny and bring in the orchestra as necessary, and that everyone would ignore Abby.
By two o’clock, the beauticians had Abby corsetted, dressed, made-up and coiffeured. She was then subjected to an interview and a long photographic shoot with the Daily Telegraph, followed by a press conference and photo-call in the burning heat.
‘Can’t I even take off my panty hose?’ pleaded Abby.
‘Certainly not, Luvlilegs have taken a full-page ad in the programme,’ said Crystelle, shutting up such subversion with a huge powder-puff slap in Abby’s face. ‘Always remember to brush powder upwards, it raises the hairs on your face and gives you a far livelier expression.’
‘Don’t you look a poppet,’ cried Peggy Parker in ecstasy. ‘What a transformation.’
Peggy herself, already made-up and wearing a white kimono over her massive corseted bulk, looked like an all-in wrestler. On the window-sill, as more dark blue lines were drawn under her lashes, Abby noticed a gift-wrapped present.
‘To Abigail Rosen, Thank you indeed for a very pleasant concert, sincerely, Peggy Parker,’ said the accompanying card.
There was one for Benny, too.
Out of the window Abby could see a beautiful sunken garden, crammed with red, white and blue rock plants. She wanted to dive into the lily pond in the centre, crack open her aching head and never wake again. Catching sight of a dreadful drag queen in the mirror, she gave a moan of anguish. But Abby had never lacked courage, one hundred thousand pounds for the RSO was worth twelve hours of humiliation.
The sweet heady smell of honeysuckle and tobacco plants grew stronger with the coming of night, mingling with the hundred different ‘fragrances’ of Mrs Parker’s invited guests who had paid one hundred and fifty pounds for their tickets and hospitality throughout the evening, and who were now noisily spilling out of the VIP tent. Most of the women had streaked hair and wore a lot of make-up which looked better as the light faded. They enjoyed a concert, they knew the tunes from Classic FM and it was such fun to look at each other’s jewels and clothes and see who’d been asked.
They all longed for a word with George Hungerford, whose manly, attractively rumpled face was always looking out from the financial pages, but sadly he was being monopolized by their husbands, hoping perhaps that some of his huge success might rub off on them.
George, in fact, was in a foul temper. He had somehow mopped up Eldred and persuaded him to play, but he was fed up with being bossed around by Peggy Parker. He had also just had a frightful row with Benny, who had refused to come out of his dressing-room and give a ‘very pleasant’ concert to anyone unless he was paid cash up front.
The orchestra were nearly all in their seats. Miss Parrott had availed herself of Peggy Parker’s offer of ge-owns at trade. A symphony of harebell-blue tulle with a mauve-blue beehive to match, she smiled across at Dimitri, the Principal Cellist, who started the concert.
Knickers was in a terrible twist, again, running around in his shirt sleeves, livid that he’d had to hand over his white dinner-jacket to Francis the Good Loser, who’d brought tails by mistake. Francis had also forgotten his black socks, and rectified the mistake by smothering his ankles with Old Henry’s black boot polish.
Catherine Jones was late. As a Second Oboe wasn’t needed in William Tell, Ninion propped up the bar and festered. He wasn’t going to help them out if Cathie didn’t show up.
At half-past seven on the dot, Mrs Parker, resplendant in a diamond tiara and red bustier with matching organdie skirt, swept down the hill in a white open-topped Bentley. Beside her, a third of her size, but radiating equal complacency, sat Sonny in a white silk tunic. With his lank dark hair loose round his silly beaky face, he looked like a parrot peering out of its baize cloth.
Dismounting from their triumphal car, Mrs Parker and Sonny were clapped onto the rostrum by the audience led by Sonny’s claque from soft furnishing.
They were followed by Abby. Clad in an electric-blue lurex shirtwaister which fell to mid-calf, she was shod in electric-blue shoes, whose four-inch heels kept falling into the cracks in the ground. Due to the tightness of her skirt it took her three goes to climb onto the platform. She was bowed down by vast rubies at her neck, ears and wrists. Her hair was bouffant, lacquered and blonded, her make-up thick as a raddled old tart in the early evening sunshine.
The orchestra, ably led by Lionel, were clutching their sides.
Flora was torn by horror and helpless laughter. Oh poor Abby. Marcus who loved Abby was absolutely furious; he wanted to punch Mrs Parker and George on the nose. He was also having increasing trouble breathing because of the heat, dust and pollen, and because the chauffeurs were keeping their engines going to enjoy the air-conditioning as they waited in the car-park.
Viking who had not forgotten the beauty of Abby’s figure in a red body-stocking was equally appalled.
‘Jesus,’ he muttered to Blue, ‘she looks like Michael Heseltine in drag.’
‘Joan of Arc burnt at the stake did not do more for France than I have for this orchestra,’ hissed Abby to the First Violins as she passed.
‘Throw a few faggots round the base then,’ murmured Lionel to Bill Thackery, the co-leader.
‘Plenty of those around,’ said Bill, who was very straight, glaring at Sonny’s claque dominating the third row.
‘Well done Abby, you look chumpion,’ lied George.
Having countenanced this transformation, he had to support it publicly, but was secretly horrified.
Mrs Parker and Sonny had already mounted the platform. Vast and tiny, a telephone box beside a small snowman, they were joined by an electric-blue beanpole, and the photographers went berserk.
‘Peggy’s done it again, have to hand it to her, the gal’s got style,’ chorused her friends.
At a distance, Abby had a certain splendour like the Statue of Liberty.
Mrs Parker then introduced the ‘new look’ Parker and Parker had especially create
d for Abigail Rosen.
‘Abigail’s coiffeure has been softly styled and highlightened by Guiseppe.’
Clap, clap, clap, clap, went the audience.
‘Maquillage,’ Mrs Parker had been practising her French, ‘by Crystelle, rubies by Precious, armpits —’ Mrs Parker allowed herself a little joke – ‘by Braun.’
‘Hope Militant Moll’s listening,’ muttered Candy.
‘Abigail’s ge-own is designed by myself, do a twirl, Abigail, you will all notice the kick-pleat.’
Clap, clap, clap, clap.
‘This is terrible,’ groaned Viking.
‘Foxie’s going to write a new book of martyrs starting with Abby,’ said Flora.
Surreptitiously getting her puppet fox from underneath her chair, she made him wave at Abby, who continued to gaze, grimly into space, not a smile lifting her blood-red lips.
‘Those in the front rows,’ vulpine Mrs Parker leered round, ‘will notice Abigail is wearing Peggy, my new inhouse fragrance.’
‘I’m wearing Piggy,’ stage whispered Clare, reducing the entire viola section to hysterics, which were fortunately drowned by the orchestra playing, ‘Happy Birthday, Peggy.’
Mrs Parker nodded graciously.
‘Thenk you, thenk you.’ Then, turning graciously to Abby, ‘and now, Maestro, will you make music.’
THIRTY-TWO
Ninion, still brooding, propped up the bar. He had drunk a litre of cider and a large gin and tonic as a chaser. He should have been playing that solo. Then he had a brainwave. Pushing his way through the crowds he reached the electrician who was doing the fireworks.
‘It’s my birthday,’ he began pathetically. ‘My parents were so poor we could never afford fireworks at home.’
Touched by this tale, the electrician, who wanted to get drunk with his mates, accepted a tenner and handed the job over to Ninion.
The only person who looked worse than Abby was Cathie Jones. Her tired red-rimmed eyes were as worried as an Alsatian’s above a muzzle. Scurf from nerves encrusted the prematurely grey roots of her lank coppery hair. Her tights were mostly darn, her make-up thicker than Abby’s to cover the bruise on her cheek. She was so thin that the ghastly primrose dress looked like a hand-me-down from a much older sister. A cheap brooch, covering the hole she had torn this afternoon, resembled an outsize nipple.