by Jilly Cooper
‘What’s the definition of a lady?’
‘Go on, Viking.’
‘A woman who can play the viola but doesn’t.’
‘Ha, ha, ha, ha.’
‘Once upon a time, Princess Diana met a frog,’ went on Viking. ‘The frog said, “If you give me a big kiss, ma’am, I’ll turn into a handsome viola player.” So Princess Diana put him in her pocket. “Whaddja do that for,” protested the frog. “You’ll be more use to me as a talking frog,” said Princess Diana.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ snarled Flora, over the howls of mirth.
Everything irritated her at the moment.
Over her right shoulder she was constantly aware of Viking’s coldness since she’d slept with Jack, and over her left she was equally conscious of Carmine’s venomous animosity.
It was also such a long time since the RSO had made a record, that for many of the players: Candy, Clare, Lincoln, Viking’s Fifth Horn, Jenny, Cherub, Flora and Noriko, this was a first experience, and they were all terrified. Recordings were for ever. Every wrong note, dropped mouthpiece or rustled page would be picked up.
The long wait was telling on everyone’s nerves, particularly as Julian, good as his word, had refused to participate without Abby, and had swept Luisa and the children off to a pantomime in London. Bill Thackery, although thrilled to have this big chance to lead the orchestra, couldn’t, as Viking pointed out, lead the winning dog up to get the obedience championship at Cruft’s.
Wandering into the studio, Boris apologized for being late, paused to change a couple of bars of ‘Blow Vind’, opened the score of the Requiem, then remembering he hadn’t called Astrid picked up the telephone on the rostrum and found himself connected to Serena.
‘We’re all waiting, Mr Levitsky,’ she said icily.
‘Vun moment,’ Boris shot out to the call-box in the passage.
He’d fix the RSO management for dragging him away in the middle of Lear, and there was his old enemy Viking reading the Racing Post and ringing his bookmaker. Thank God he’d given ‘Rachel’s Lament’ to Cathie Jones, although she wouldn’t be needed until tomorrow.
The red light was on, shining through the mist of cigarette smoke like a setting September sun.
‘The tape’s started, Boris,’ said Serena, on the talk-back that could be heard by the whole studio. She would only use the telephone on the rostrum for private abuse.
Raising his stick, Boris noticed how many bows and instruments were trembling and smiled reassuringly.
‘You are nervous, don’t be, forget the microphones, we are making music. Eef we make few mistakes it doesn’t matter.’
‘No-one will notice anyway,’ muttered Old Henry who loathed contemporary music.
How lovely to have Boris back, after Abby’s relentless exactitude, thought the RSO fondly. Boris always kept them on their toes; they never knew what he would do next.
Unfortunately this time Boris didn’t know either. He had totally underestimated the terrifying complexities of a work that suddenly seemed to have been written long ago by someone else. The first tutti was completely haywire, followed by two bars of silence, when the orchestra didn’t come in at all, except for a great tummy-rumble from Candy who’d been too nervous to have any breakfast, and who went bright scarlet, which sent all the rank-and-file viola players into fits of giggles.
This was followed by a dreadful crunch when Boris by mistake cued the horns into head-on collision with the trombones totally drowning a flute duet.
‘I don’t know what happened then,’ said Juno in a flustered voice, ‘I looked up at Boris.’
‘That was your first mistake,’ said Peter Plumpton grimly.
Serena glared down at the black tangle of notes like a front on the weather map, and picked up the telephone.
‘Let’s start again.’
But it was no better. Boris didn’t know when to bring anyone in, seemed unaware of colour, dynamics or tempo and was constantly behind the beat.
As his gestures grew wilder and more panicky, the level metres in the control-room kept bouncing off the top, leaving nothing in reserve for any big crescendo coming up.
Without Abby to hold it together or, at least, Julian to bring in other section leaders with great nods, the piece collapsed. Useless take followed utterly useless take.
‘Despite what anyone says,’ murmured Simon Painshaw to Ninion, ‘there is a difference between intended and unintended cacophony.’
The telephone rang constantly.
‘Serena’s trying to make a date with you, Boris,’ shouted Dixie, ‘very soft beds in the Old Bell.’
Boris growled back in Russian and retreated to the Old Bell for succour. He was very drunk when he returned after the break, but because the RSO had been taught the Requiem painstakingly by Abby, they struggled on to the end of ‘Dies Irae’.
‘Why isn’t Abby conducting this?’ grumbled Viking. ‘At this rate, we’ll be here till Boxing Day.’
Glumly the musicians watched the recording engineer dart in and shift a microphone towards Bill Thackery for the solo with which Julian had reduced everyone to tears at the première. It had been much too difficult for Lionel, and should have completely defeated Bill Thackery. But smilingly aware of opportunity knocking, he ploughed on, sublimely unaware that he sounded as though he was chainsawing through his grandmother’s wardrobe with Granny shrieking inside. Boris, however, was too drunk to notice.
In the lunch-hour, Francis the Good Loser, who had moved up to co-leader for the day and who had the sweetest nature in the orchestra, for once lost his temper.
‘How dare that tone-deaf nerd butcher such a beautiful solo?’ he stormed to Eldred, who cautiously agreed that Bill could have done with a drop of oil.
Alas the ‘tone-deaf nerd’ overheard them, retreated to the leader’s room in high dudgeon, and had to be coaxed out by Miles and Hilary. ‘Take no notice, Bill.’
‘Don’t listen to two such disgusting slobs.’
‘They’ve upset Bill, the nicest man in the orchestra,’ said Hilary as she flounced back to her seat.
‘And the worst bloody player,’ said Randy.
Serena was going up the wall, too. She had spent the lunch-hour in despair and on her mobile. She had a hundred other projects to look after and a small daughter, whom she’d been hoping to take to Toad of Toad Hall on Wednesday. Serena was ambitious. Apart from the cost of paying the musicians for extra sessions, she couldn’t afford to make a lousy record. They’d be lucky if they got five minutes in the can today.
Boris, drinking brandy out of a paper cup, was now slumped on one of the sleep-inducing squashy leather sofas at the back of the control-room. Damp patches met across the back of his dark red shirt. He was Lear on the blasted heath being ‘pussy-vipped’ by the elements.
‘I think because of Rachel’s death I block out Requiem.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Serena crossly, ‘you haven’t bothered to learn it. Now get back and finish this session.’
Miles was shuddering with disapproval. Knickers was very, very down. It would totally knock his budget on the head if he had to call in all those extras for additional sessions. How would they ever again be able to afford exciting projects like Fidelio and Mahler’s Symphony of a Thousand to fire the public’s imagination.
Half an hour from the end of the afternoon, the RSO limped to the end of the ‘Benedictus’, and the section leaders crowded wearily into the control-room to listen to the play-back. Eldred, already suicidal at the prospect of a wifeless Christmas, was white and shaking because he hated rows. Dimitri, Simon and Peter Plumpton sat listening with heads bowed because they hated bad playing. Dixie and Carmine just hated each other. Jerry the Joker looked at Serena’s legs. Davie Buckle and Barry the Bass who had played jazz all night were asleep.
El Creepo edged along the squashy sofa, so his right-hand fingers folded round his upper arm could rub against the more exciting squashiness of Mary’s pretty right breast. A totally oblivious Mary was
worrying what food shops would still be open, and if she sold her pearls would she get enough to pay the telephone bill and buy a tricycle for Justin for Christmas. Bill Thackery, radiating decency and solidarity, had quite recovered from his mini-tantrum. Blissful to be centre stage for once, he thought nothing had ever sounded more lovely than his dreadful solo.
‘Bill’s all right in the higher register where only bats can hear him,’ muttered Viking to Tommy Stainforth, Principal Percussion.
Slumped against the parquet wall, reading a rave review in Gramophone of his Strauss concerto, Viking looked shattered, his blond mane lank and separating. He had to drive to Bristol to play Mozart’s Fourth Horn Concerto that evening. Through the glass panel he could see Flora. Having boasted he would pick her off, he had been enraged to be pipped by Jack Rodway. Look at her now, flipping through Clare’s copy of Tatler, yacking away to Cherub, Noriko and Candy, making them all laugh, always the focus of bloody attention.
Serena was making notes at her desk.
‘I’ll buy that if you will, Boris,’ she said, more out of despair.
Boris, who was sobering up, shook his head. ‘“Benedictus” is too pretty, too charming.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ muttered Dixie.
‘Those crochets are too long,’ agreed Dimitri. ‘The melody seduce me.’
‘I screw up this tape,’ said Boris grandiosely, ‘we vill do it again, have this von on me.’
‘Well, step on it,’ said Serena. ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes to go before we’re into overtime.’
Serena was passionately relieved when George stalked in just back from Manchester. Having been briefed by Miles, he immediately asked for a score. His face grew grimmer as once again Boris and the ‘Benedictus’ drew to its utterly biteless conclusion. Not a chord or a scale was together.
‘Good thing this glass is bullet-proof,’ said Serena bleakly, ‘We should have stuck with L’Appassionata.’
‘Don’t tell her, she’ll be even more impossible.’
‘At this rate, we’ll go into a second week. If he doesn’t get his act together tomorrow, we’ll have to reschedule or pull the whole thing.’
For a second they gazed at each other; they had planned a leisurely dinner leading to other things.
George sighed. ‘I’ll take him home and force-feed him the score.’ He put a rough hand on hers, ‘There’ll be oother occasions.’
‘Not if the RSO go on playing like this. See you all tomorrow at nine forty-five,’ she called over the talk-back.
Like prisoners in the dungeons of Fidelio the musicians shambled out, frustrated, tired and blaming Boris.
‘Poor Boris,’ protested Noriko. ‘He is very sad to be dragged away from King Rear.’
‘Viking’s King Rear’, said Nellie wistfully, ‘always forcing that gorgeous ass into the tightest jeans.’
A swaying Boris was hijacked on the way out. After initial pleasantries, George asked him where he was staying.
‘Voodbine Cottage, Abby and Flora invite me.’
‘Uh-uh,’ George grabbed Boris’s arm, ‘you’re cooming home with me. You’re going to sober oop, and spend the night with the score instead of one of those two scroobers.’
Unfortunately he hadn’t seen Flora who was lurking in the shadows. She was in total despair, as she remembered the excitement with which they had all worked to finish the Requiem in the summer.
‘I’m not a scrubber,’ she said furiously. ‘If you hadn’t junked Abby, none of this would have happened,’ and fled into the icy night.
Having been forced to drink four Alka-Seltzers before being put straight to bed, Boris slept for nine hours. George woke him at five, giving him black coffee and four hours on the Requiem.
By this time Boris was ready for a huge fry-up, including fried bread spread with Oxford Marmalade.
‘Public-school habit I peek up from Flora.’
‘My cross,’ said George bleakly.
‘Is excellent girl,’ protested Boris.
‘You’ve been seduced by a not particularly pretty face,’ snapped George.
‘Is Cordelia in Lear, “so young, my lord, and true”. My God —’ Boris clapped his hand to his forehead in horror – ‘vere is my Lear manuscript, three month’s vork, I am ruined.’
‘Sit down.’ George poured Boris another cup of coffee. ‘I put it in the office safe.’
Boris slumped back in his chair.
‘You are horrible, but very good guy. You save vork of art.’
George made sure Boris arrived at the studios in good time. They were greeted by a smirking shifty-eyed Carmine. Cathie had flu, and couldn’t play ‘Rachel’s Lament’ in the ‘Libera Me’. Knickers was tearing the remains of his red hair out. Where would he find a cor anglais player in Christmas week at five minutes’ notice?
‘Cathie could have bloody rung.’
Miss Parrott leapt to Cathie’s defence.
‘That bug going round knocks you for six.’
‘So does that bugger,’ said an anguished Blue, who hadn’t slept for two nights with excitement at the prospect of seeing Cathie and who had turned up in his best blue shirt. ‘I know he’s blacked Cathie’s eye or worse. I’m going round there.’
‘Don’t,’ hissed Viking, ‘the bastard will notice you’re missing. Lindy Cardew has just returned brown as a berry from the Seychelles, courtesy no doubt of George Hungerford. On Friday she and the planning officer are off again to Gstaad. Carmine doesn’t want Cathie around cramping his style.’
Nicholas, Miles, George, Serena and Boris were in a despairing huddle around the rostrum
‘We’ll have to record the “Libera Me” at a later date,’ said Boris.
‘The only solution,’ said Flora strolling up to them, ‘is for Viking to play the solo.’
‘The hell I will,’ Viking didn’t look up from Classical Music, ‘Boris didn’t want me in the first place.’
‘That is untrue,’ said Boris outraged, ‘I offer it to heem once.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, bury your pride, both of you,’ said Flora. ‘You bloody well owe it to us, Boris, for wasting all our times yesterday.’
‘Ahem,’ George cleared his throat, ‘I would like to remind you,’ he told Flora tartly, ‘that until otherwise stated I am nominally in charge of this orchestra.’
‘Well, tell them not to be so pigheaded.’
‘I don’t ’ave French ’orn version,’ said Boris sullenly.
‘I do,’ said Flora, ‘I kept it in my locker. One never knows when these things might come in useless, as you’re obviously all opposed to the idea.’
‘Go and get it,’ said George.
‘It’s only got a bass accompaniment,’ said Serena, as they all pored over the Sellotaped-together page. ‘You and Barry can practise it in the lunch-hour, Viking.’
‘I’m busy,’ said Viking haughtily, ‘I’ll sight-read it.’
Flora’s pleasure in having secured him the solo evaporated at his lack of enthusiasm. Battling with an icy wind in the High Street on her way to send flowers to Cathie Jones, she felt even worse. A BMW screamed to a halt and Viking leapt out. He had put on a tie and had brushed his hair. For a blissful moment, Flora thought he was stopping to thank her; instead he belted into the florists, bought every freesia in the place and belted out again.
Flora started to cry. She ached all over. No-one ever said, ‘Well done, violas’. She was fed up and lonely. She hated George for calling her a scrubber and Viking for bombarding beauties with freesias. Even worse was the thought of Christmas, with all its jollity and loving kindness. She would have to go home to warring parents and a place that reminded her only of Rannaldini.
The rest of the RSO had a much better day. Boris was back on form conducting with his old fire and inspiration. They worked fast polishing off the ‘Agnus Dei’, the ‘Lux Aeterna’ and a vastly improved ‘Benedictus’.
It was time for ‘Rachel’s Lament’.
‘Aren’t
you nervous?’ said Cherub admiringly.
Viking shook his head. He had the big-match temperament, that needed adrenalin pumping through his veins to make him perform at his best. Throwing his paper cup of coffee at the waste-paper basket and missing, he picked up his horn. He had removed his tie and jacket. His casket of earth glinted in the V of his dark blue shirt which had escaped from his jeans. Two days in an airless, ill-lit studio had taken their toll. The pale skin fell away from his high cheek-bones, the lines were deeply etched round the bruised mouth, the slitty eyes had disappeared into black shadows.
Too much sex at lunch-time, thought Flora sourly.
I must sign him up, sighed Serena. He’d just have to stand there and smoulder.
Cathie’s version of ‘Rachel’s Lament’ had been poignant, haunting, coming from the depth of her sadness, the last cry of the dying swan. Viking curdled the blood, the rising fourths and fifths singing out, probing, incessant, insistent, almost unbearably raw and primitive. One great player saluting the departure of another.
Miles, Nicholas, George, Miss Priddock holding John Drummond, even Harry Hopcraft, the financial director, crowded into the control-room to listen. All sat spellbound. Only Viking and Julian had that ability at five o’clock on a mean, grey afternoon to bring tears spurting out of the weariest eyes.
Boris, whose eyes were completely misted over, pointed vaguely in Carmine’s direction to bring in the fanfare of trumpets sounding for Rachel on the other side, before the final majestic tutti.
The instant the red light went out, everyone burst out cheering. Boris had pinched Bill’s red-spotted handkerchief to wipe his eyes and was just about to congratulate Viking when the telephone rang. Snatching it up, Boris listened for a second.
‘You tell him. Vy do I always do your dirty vurk?’ he slammed down the receiver and took a deep breath.
‘Viking, that was fantastic, absolutely vonderful, perfect, out of these vorld, but we have technical fault. Could you possibly do exactly the same thing again?’
The orchestra winced collectively, waiting for the explosion.
‘I know women just like that,’ drawled Viking.
Everyone in the studio and the control-room collapsed in relieved and helpless laughter. And Viking did it again – even better.