Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘What a dog,’ said Quinton Mitchell, Third Horn, in disgust. ‘No wonder Carmine’s humping Lindy Cardew.’

  Blue swung round to land Quinton one, but just in time Abby raised her baton, an exercise in weightlifting as her ruby bracelet glittered in the fading sunlight.

  Dimitri was just about to draw his bow across the strings, when a loud voice said; ‘If you’re into harcheology, Turkey is definitely the place, thank you very, very much.’

  It was Lindy Cardew coming in late, blowing discreet kisses at Carmine.

  ‘That’s ’im,’ she whispered to her friend. ‘You just wait till he blows ‘is trumpet.’

  Abby shot Lindy an absolutely filthy look, not lost on any of the audience, and brought down her stick.

  Buoyed up by a beta-blocker and several swigs of sherry from Miss Parrott’s hip-flask, Dimitri and his four cellos brought tears to everyone’s eyes with the beautiful introduction which was followed by the thrilling crashes of the storm. Abby found it almost impossible to conduct in high heels; only the thought that she would land on El Creepo stopped her falling into the orchestra.

  It was time for Catherine Jones’s cor anglais solo, and the instant she started playing, the mockery faded on people’s faces. She looked as though she was sucking some heavenly nectar out of a bent straw, as if an angel’s hand had fun over her strained, tortured face restoring its former beauty.

  Even the waitresses stopped washing up glasses to listen to the langourous, hauntingly lovely tune. No wonder Carmine was jealous. Even Abby looked at peace, her hand rising and falling in slow motion like a dancer’s as she smiled down at Cathie.

  Such enthusiasm was too much for Ninion. A plague on both you hussies. There was a deafening explosion. For a terrifying moment, people thought it was a bomb, then twenty thousand pounds’ worth of fireworks erupted.

  Crash, crash, crash, went Roman candles, jumping jacks, Catherine wheels, spilling out red, white and blue sparks; whoosh went the rockets exploding miles into the air, lost against a fading turquoise sky including the climax which said: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO PEGGY PARKER in red, white and blue. Cathie’s solo, and Peter Plumpton’s flute variations were totally obliterated, and there were no fireworks left for Carmine’s fanfare and the rousing finale. Piggy Parker was not the only one going ballistic. Blue was on his feet.

  ‘I’m going to strangle that focking electrician.’

  As he dived for the edge of the platform, Viking pulled him back: ‘Wait for the break and we’ll both throttle him.

  ‘I need you to drown Benny,’ he added as an afterthought, as a nine-foot Steinway was wheeled on to the usual grumbling from the First and Second Violins. Clare, Candy, Flora, Juno, Nellie, Noriko and Mary-the-Mother-of-Justin, who had all been taken individually aside and told that Benny was playing the concerto just for them, waited expectantly. Cherub, who was playing the famous triangle solo in the third movement, shook with excitement, his triangle swinging from its silver stand like a hangman’s noose.

  Benny was definitely drunk when he came onto the platform, even the lingering sulphur of the fireworks couldn’t disguise the wine fumes. He’d hardly bothered to warm up. He just regards this as a bread-and-butter concert, thought Abby furiously.

  Twiddles from the orchestra, followed by rigid-fingered banging from Benny, had the audience, who were all now fanning their sweating faces with their programmes, jumping out of their seats.

  Marcus put his head in his hands; how could anyone play so insensitively and so badly? Oh God, give me a chance.

  At first, Abby tried to cover up Benny’s missed entries and fluffed lines, then she realized that half the orchestra were ignoring her and following Benny. Others like Dimitri, Blue, Viking and Flora, feeling desperately sorry for Abby, were following her instead. The result was almost more contemporary than Sonny Beam and, as Benny skipped a few bars whenever things got too difficult, everyone was soon jumping around like Tom and Jerry.

  ‘I played the last page three times,’ muttered Viking, at the end of the first movement.

  ‘Library gave me the wrong concerto,’ said Blue grimly.

  Ninion, by this time, had escaped across a little bridge to the opposite bank with another litre of cider and a duck caller. So the slow movement, despite Benny’s bashing, was accompanied by furious quacking as though Donald Duck had joined Tom and Jerry.

  Further hassle was provided by the mosquitoes, unchecked by the darting swallows, who were now attacking players in droves, particularly the balder heads of older members of the orchestra. Finally a huge dragonfly landed like a helicopter on the baldest head, that of Dimitri.

  ‘Quack, quack, quee-ack,’ called Ninion plaintively from the reeds.

  Any giggling by the orchestra was then obliterated by Benny crashing into the last movement, interspersed by the silver shimmer of Cherub’s triangle. Cherub looked so angelic with his blond curls, pink cheeks and his excited smile, that the audience gazed at him, which made a furious Benny bash louder than ever.

  At the end Abby stormed off, catching a four-inch heel in a chair leg, and falling off the platform into George’s arms.

  ‘Let me go,’ she hissed, enveloped by his strength and solidarity, longing to sob her heart out on one of his wide shoulders.

  ‘The Press want a photograph of you and Benny,’ said George.

  ‘I do not share that pianist’s interpretation,’ said Abby through gritted teeth.

  ‘Nor do I to be honest,’ conceded George, who had vowed never to book Benny again. ‘But let’s just get through this evening.’

  Fortunately the audience who’d chatted throughout hadn’t noticed a thing wrong and were now looking forward to ‘bubbly and nibbles’ in the VIP tent.

  ‘What is the matter with Eldred?’ asked Quinton as Abby returned and raised the horn section to their feet for a special clap.

  ‘Wife’s just left him,’ said Blue.

  ‘Is that all? Thought he must be upset he was half a tone sharp in that last solo.’

  But Blue had gone leaping into the crowd like a bloodhound in search of the focking electrician.

  The setting sun balancing on the horizon gilded the huge trees of the park and softened the ox-blood stone of Rutminster Towers. House martins dived in and out of the eaves feeding their young. In the VIP tent the ice had run out, all Peggy’s pals expecting ‘bubbly’ were disappointed to be fobbed off with mulled Pimm’s.

  ‘So looking forward to meeting Abigail,’ they all chorused.

  ‘Artists don’t like to break the mood in the middle of a concert,’ Mrs Parker was telling them sententiously. ‘You will all have the chance of a few words later.’

  ‘Hum,’ said Flora, who’d been smuggled into the tent by Viking, ‘I don’t know what sort of mood Abby’ll be in.’

  ‘It’s a terrible concert,’ Viking shook his head. ‘Acoustics are always dire outside unless you’re up against a brick wall.’

  ‘Like the management,’ said Dixie, scooping up half a dozen asparagus rolls.

  ‘Also like the management,’ agreed Viking. ‘The strings get totally lost.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Dixie.

  ‘I don’t know how you lot got in here,’ said Miles beadily, ‘but if you’re going to crash parties and avail yourself of Mrs Parker’s hospitality, you can jolly well stop coffee-housing and mingle with her guests.’

  ‘George Hungerford is awfully good at mingling,’ observed Flora, as she watched him pressing the flesh, talking to MPs, lawyers, local businessmen, shop owners along the High Street, never stopping long, too shy or too busy to want to get caught, but making each person feel important and welcome:

  ‘You must come to H.P. Hall and hear the orchestra. I’ll send you a couple of tickets, we’ve got some good dos coming up in the autumn.’

  ‘He’s sponsor hunting,’ said Dixie.

  ‘Up to a point,’ said Viking. ‘He’s also bought fifty acres on Cowslip Hill and wants to build on them, my guess is
he’s greasing palms.’

  Flora was screwing up courage to talk to George. She and Abby had been discussing Marcus’s poverty, and his heartbreakingly slow progress, over supper last night.

  ‘If I push him, the management’ll resist,’ sighed Abby, ‘they’re still pissed off I smuggled you in.’

  ‘I’ll try and introduce him to George,’ said Flora. ‘The only problem is that Marcus is so shy and unpushy, he’ll probably bolt.’

  Now Marcus had joined her and Flora could see George getting nearer. Like most of the men he’d removed his dinner-jacket showing a roll of fat over his trouser belt. His evening shirt was transparent with sweat, his square face red and shiny. Why on earth did all the women in the orchestra find him sexy? And oh God, here was Benny, black curls soaked from the shower, cream silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist.

  Deciding Flora was the most seductive of all the girls he’d propositioned, Benny sidled up.

  ‘How about a leetle deener at my ’otel, no-one would mees you, if we slope off.’

  ‘Piss off, you disgusting Frog,’ said Viking coldly.

  Benny was about to land Viking one, but was distracted by the arrival of George, Mrs Parker and Lord Leatherhead, who had been boring Mrs Parker’s guests silly rabbiting on about bottled water.

  ‘Good concert, well done, all of you,’ he said heartily. ‘Peggy, I don’t think you’ve met our latest recruit, Flora Seymour. She plays the viola jolly well.’

  Mrs Parker, who was even redder in the face than George, didn’t look remotely interested until Lord Leatherhead added that Flora’s mother was Georgie Maguire.

  Oh hell, thought Flora.

  ‘I’m a large fan of ’ers,’ said Mrs Parker in excitement, ‘I’ve got all her records. Perhaps she’d like to visit the store one day. We could find her something really outstandin’ for her next concert.’

  ‘That’s sweet.’ Catching Viking’s eye, Flora started to giggle, then seeing George glaring at her, added quickly, ‘I wonder if I could possibly introduce a friend of mine, Marcus Campbell-Black.’

  Beautiful boy, thought George. Looks as though he was born in a dinner-jacket, she would go for someone like that.

  ‘Are you the son of?’ asked Mrs Parker skittishly. ‘Very delighted to receive you.’

  Marcus winced as her diamonds dug into him.

  ‘I’ve shot with your father,’ brayed Lord Leatherhead. ‘A very fine shot.’

  ‘Marcus is a very fine pianist,’ piped up Flora. ‘No, he is,’ she continued ignoring Marcus’s hands frantically waving for her to stop. ‘He was at the Academy and he plays like an angel. Could he audition for you some time, Mr Hungerford, or we could send you a tape?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Lord Leatherhead.

  ‘Phone me at the office,’ said George then, as the warning bells started, ‘You lot better get back.’

  ‘I ’ope you will play at one of my soirées at Rutminster Towers, Marcus,’ said Mrs Parker graciously, ‘or come to afternoon tea under the walnut tree. Perhaps your father would like to look in, too. I’m sure he’d appreciate how much the RSO do for young people.’

  Marcus, however, had boiled over. ‘I haven’t seen any sign of it,’ he said furiously, ‘or you wouldn’t have humiliated darling Abby by forcing her into that seriously hideous dress.’ Then seeing the horror and fury particularly on Mrs Parker’s face, added, ‘You succeeded in making one of the most beautiful women in the world look like a disgusting old slag-heap. You should be bloody well ashamed of yourselves.’ And, turning on his heel, he stumbled out of the tent.

  ‘If your friend wants to get to the top as a soloist,’ an enraged George turned on Flora, ‘I don’t think he’s going about it the right way.’

  The choir had a good screech and the audience a good chat during the Polovtsian Dances by which time the sun had set, leaving an orange glow on the horizon, so no-one could read their programmes any more. Not that it mattered during the pièce de résistance which was only too easy to resist, Sonny’s Eternal Triangle.

  Crash bang wallop, plinkety plonk, catawaul screech, went the orchestra to an increasing crescendo of shifting bottoms and mutterings as people ducked to avoid a night raid of bats.

  ‘Yodelayayo,’ carolled the plump young man in lederhosen.

  Abby’s electric-blue shoes were killing her, her wrists and shoulders were agony, but that was nothing to the ghastly humiliation ahead, being hawked round Peggy Parker’s vulgar friends like one of Tamberlaine’s captured war lords.

  Amidst the frightful din, she could hear Cherub ringing cowbells, reminding her that tomorrow she was flying out to Lucerne and Rodney for a month, and this nightmare would be over.

  There was only a page left. Cherub had finished his last little solo. Then, during a dramatic pause when the orchestra were completely silent for three bars, Lindy Cardew could be heard saying loudly to her friend: ‘No, no, no, she hasn’t got a black one. She’s got a long furred marmalade one.’

  Abby flipped. Swinging round she howled: ‘Will you flaming well shut up,’ which was fortunately drowned out for many of the audience by the final deafening tutti.

  Manic that such a frightful din was over, geed up by the claque from soft furnishing who all wanted Cherub’s telephone number, the audience gave the piece a great reception, which gave Sonny plenty of time to run on and take his composer’s bow.

  As Abby came off the stage clutching red-and-white gladioli and royal-blue delphiniums, she was accosted by a BBC crew and a horde of Press asking her about her new image.

  Exactly on cue, a mallard, no doubt unnerved earlier by Ninion’s duck caller, dumped copiously on Abby’s electric-blue bosom, whereupon Abby laughed for the first time in days and said straight to camera: ‘Well done, duckie, that’s a distinct improvement.’

  The next moment, horrified Parker minions charged forward to hurry her into the house and sponge her down. Upstairs Crystelle waited, ready with a respray before Abby met her public: ‘The most important part of your evening.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, I have to distance myself for a few minutes after a concert,’ said Abby and dived into Mrs Parker’s bathroom locking the door.

  On the way to the Long Gallery to dump her viola, Flora flexed her aching back and wondered what had become of Marcus. He’d probably cooked all their geese with the management, but how brave and wonderful he had been.

  Hearing a kerfuffle, Flora edged forward. Round the corner Blue had got hold of Ninion and hung him by his white dinner-jacket on a row of pegs.

  ‘You snivelling little bastard,’ he hissed, glaring into Ninion’s terrified blinking eyes, then he hit him very hard across the face with the back of his hand.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ bleated Ninion, swinging helplessly.

  ‘Don’t you ever do anything like that to Cathie Jones again; you’re not fit to lick her boots.’

  Blue was about to hit Ninion again when George arrived, clicking his fingers for two heavies, who pulled him off.

  ‘That’s enough,’ snapped George. ‘Throw him in the river to cool him down,’ he told the heavies. ‘And I want you in my office first thing on Monday morning, Ninion.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ whispered Flora to Miss Parrott.

  ‘Brass have a problem when it’s humid,’ sighed Miss Parrott, righting her mauve beehive in the mirror, then, seeing the sceptical expression on Flora’s face, added, ‘Blue has rather a soft spot for Cathie Jones. And I think he’s upset Carmine, made her go home before the interval.’

  Knickers was in a further twist. Retrieving his white dinner-jacket from Francis to wear at the party, he found it covered in black boot polish. Francis would lose his job at this rate.

  Benny was even more upset, having decided to plump for second best, he couldn’t find Nellie the Nympho anywhere.

  ‘Yodellayayo,’ came an ecstatic cry from the shrubbery.

  ‘Someone’s dropped a pair of lederhosen,’ sniffed Fat Isobel, w
ho was crying because she wouldn’t see Viking for a month.

  ‘I’m going to miss you, Lady C,’ Dixie was telling Clare in that ghastly Glaswegian accent which had become music to her ears. ‘The moors will be purple with heather.’

  ‘Daddy’s going up to Scotland for the 12th,’ said Clare, ‘I could go with him, then we could meet.’

  ‘We certainly could,’ said Dixie looking much happier. ‘Piss off you disgusting Frog,’ he added as Benny slid a too high hand round Clare’s waist.

  Peter Plumpton, the First Flute, being small always got drunk very quickly.

  ‘Putti, putti, putti,’ he cried, as he advanced with an outstretched hand on a group of reconstituted-stone cherubs.

  Miss Parrott was sharing a log, a bottle of white and a plate of Dover sole and lobster poached in Sauterne with Dimitri.

  ‘That opening to William Tell was the loveliest thing Ay’ve ever heard,’ she was telling him.

  ‘Your solo in Wrist’s Piano Concerto was perfect,’ confided Noriko.

  ‘Three agents have tried to sign me up, I’m going to be the next Evelyn Glennie,’ giggled Cherub, squeezing her little hand.

  Meanwhile favoured customers, who hadn’t heard Abby yelling at Lindy Cardew, were congratulating Peggy Parker, who hadn’t either, on the graciousness of the occasion.

  ‘Abigail will be de-own shortly,’ promised Mrs Parker regally.

  Mrs Parker’s bathroom had a dressing-room mirror with lights going round in a semicircle. Watching the moths helplessly smashing their wings and bodies against the burning bulbs, Abby gave a sob. It was just like her and the RSO. Out of the window she could see members of her orchestra chucking the stuff down their throats no doubt laughing themselves sick to see her so humiliated.