Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  The next moment he and Boris were hugging each other.

  ‘Let’s go and get vasted.’

  FORTY-ONE

  After getting plastered with Boris, Viking was woken at noon by his cleaner, Mrs Diggory, banging noisily against the skirting-boards as she hoovered outside his room. She was due to leave at one o’clock. She hadn’t been paid for three weeks, and was more hopeful of a Christmas bonus if she woke up Viking, who, when he was in funds, was the most generous of the Celtic Mafia. Picking his way through piles of dropped clothes, dog bowls and curry trays, carrying his head gingerly downstairs as if he were trying not to spill it, Viking begged Mrs Diggory to make him a cup of coffee.

  ‘I can’t do the bedrooms, they’re all occupied,’ she sniffed.

  ‘You can do mine,’ said Viking, ‘and change the sheets, please.’

  ‘Expecting company?’ Mrs Diggory had to slant the kettle to fill it above the mountain of soaking plates and mugs.

  ‘Probably,’ Viking peered gloomily at his reflection in the dingy hall mirror. His hair was so long on top, he’d soon have a middle parting like Nugent.

  As he let Nugent out to see off any lurking duck, he noticed the shadow of Woodbine Cottage, across the lake through the bare trees above a fading red carpet of beech leaves.

  Picking up the telephone, he called Giuseppe, Parker and Parker’s most sought-after hairdresser.

  ‘Of course, I’ll fit you in, Viking love, but why must you always call at the last minute?’

  ‘Going to get your hair done?’ said Mrs Diggory cosily, as she put three spoonfuls of sugar into night-black coffee.

  ‘I don’t have my hair done, I have it cot,’ said Viking haughtily, then, picking up Mrs Diggory’s copy of the Sun, and turning to the back page, exclaimed, ‘Glory Hallelujah!’

  Seizing Mrs Diggory, he waltzed her round the kitchen.

  ‘Flora’s Pride won by three lengths at 40-1, I’ve just won two hundred quid.’

  ‘Most of that owed to me.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Viking retrieved a betting-slip before chucking his jeans into the washing-machine, and gave it to Mrs Diggory.

  ‘Hand it in to Ladbrokes in the High Street and keep the change for a Christmas bonus.’

  ‘You sure?’ squawked Mrs Diggory in delight.

  ‘Otterly.’

  ‘You won’t recognize your room when you get back.’

  ‘Leave the heating on, lock it, and leave the key in there —’ Viking tapped the willow-pattern teapot on the dresser – ‘to stop the other basstards using it.’

  ‘Don’t get too whistled, and forget where I’ve left it.’

  Viking glanced at his watch, and reached for the last wine bottle in the rack.

  ‘We’ve got time for a quick glass, then I mosst dash.’

  ‘You better wrap up warm, snow’s forecast.’

  Searching for her cheque book in the chaos of the drawing-room, Flora discovered an Advent calendar Cherub had given Abby for Christmas, and in an orgy of misery wolfed all the chocolates behind the doors.

  Still feeling sick, she wandered listlessly through Parker’s, mostly because it was the only warm place in the High Street. In the record department, she noticed how little music had been written for the viola. She must start singing again. What the hell could she buy her parents? A pair of boxing gloves? On her salary she could hardly afford the wrapping paper.

  ‘In the Bleak Midwinter,’ sang Hermione over the loudspeaker.

  Flora had no difficulty recognizing the orchestra; she’d know that razor-sharp precision anywhere. Looking up, she saw a Rannaldini poster glaring down at her, an inch of white cuff showing off the only hands that had ever really given her pleasure, she had been cold, ever since his arms had left her.

  Oh bloody hell, thought Flora, I’m not putting up with any more frozen nights at Woodbine Cottage.

  Running downstairs to the Household Emporium, she was just paying for a very expensive electric blanket, when the cheque was removed from her hands and torn into tiny pieces.

  Whipping round, Flora found herself looking at dark gold stubble, surrounding the widest, wickedest smile.

  ‘You’re not going to need that tonight, darling.’

  ‘I’ve just made out the bill,’ squawked the shop assistant, furious to be robbed of the tiny commission, ‘and dogs are not allowed in here.’

  But Flora was gazing up into Viking’s face, the colour staining her pale cheeks. Suddenly they were interrupted by an old lady tapping on Viking’s shoulders.

  ‘That was a lovely concert, Victor, we enjoyed it so much.’

  ‘Thanks, darling,’ Viking had to bend right down to kiss her wrinkled cheek. ‘Happy Christmas, see you in the spring. And I’ll see you later,’ he added to Flora, then he and Nugent were gone, haring off to catch the lift for Giuseppe and the hairdressing salon.

  ‘Such a nice young man,’ quavered the old lady to Flora and the assistant, who clearly didn’t think so at all.

  ‘He played at the centre yesterday: Scott Joplin, “Bye, Bye Blackbird”, “We’ll Meet Again” – got us all on our feet dancing, even Mrs Bilson and she’s over ninety, and he bought a big box of chocolates and everyone a little bunch of flowers.’

  ‘Viking played to you at lunch-time yesterday?’ squeaked Flora.

  The old lady nodded. ‘He often plays to us, and at the hospital. Other people come from the orchestra, but Victor’s our pin-up. I love his cheeky grin.’

  ‘Oh, so do I,’ said Flora. ‘Thank you for telling me, and Happy Christmas. I’m really sorry,’ she added to the assistant, ‘but I’ll spend the money somewhere else in the store. Can you possibly direct me to party dresses?’

  Back at Woodbine Cottage, Marcus had finally got rid of his last pupil of the day.

  Smothered in Opium, wearing the tightest bottle-green cashmere jersey, she had edged her stool up the keyboard, until Marcus was sitting on the window-sill.

  Then, when he had showed her some fingering, she had put her other hand over his, imprisoning it and murmuring: ‘My mother used to know your father. She said he was seriously wicked.’

  ‘I’m just seriously boring,’ said Marcus apologetically, turning his head so her kiss fell on his jawbone.

  As she was leaving, she gave him a biography of Rachmaninov and a bottle of Moët.

  ‘See you next term. I’m going to get a terrific suntan skiing.’

  He hadn’t the heart to tell her that her scent gave him asthma. Why hadn’t he kissed her back? She’d been so pretty. What would it have mattered?

  Yesterday he had given a Chopin and Liszt recital at an up-market girls’ day-school, and afterwards signed two hundred autographs.

  ‘You wouldn’t like a job teaching music, Mr Black?’ the headmistress had asked skittishly. ‘I’m sure you’d cure our truancy problem overnight.’

  Then she had given him a fee of seventy-five pounds.

  There was no way he could pay the rent or for the Stein way, and buy presents for Abby and Flora. The cottage bills were horrific; Flora left lights and fires on all the time, and neither she nor Abby thought anything of ringing long distance for hours.

  Marcus’s studio was freezing, but except when he had pupils, he tried to put on four jerseys instead of the heating. As if to save him electricity, the falling snow was lighting the room, thickening branch and twig, filling up the winter jasmine curling inside the lank skeins of traveller’s joy. He put the biography of Rachmaninov in the bookshelf, above the rows of CDs, tapes and scores.

  The most charitable way you could describe the studio inside was minimalist: as little clutter as possible to attract the dust mites that caused his asthma. There were no carpets on the bare boards. The only furniture was the Steinway, two piano-stools and the bed. On the walls, apart from the bookshelf, hung only the Munnings of Pylon Peggoty, his grandfather’s grey, given to him by Rupert.

  His asthma had been particularly bad since The Messiah. After spending
the night with Monica and Edith, his homesickness had been so great that he had driven out to Penscombe, and from the top road had watched Rupert, who used to bobsleigh, hurtling down the fields on a toboggan. In front of him sat Xavier, squealing with joy. A pack of excited dogs followed them, the yelling and barking echoing round the white valley as everything sparkled in the sunshine beneath a delphinium-blue sky.

  Then Rupert had taken Xav’s hand, and led him and the toboggan back up the hill to help Taggie and Bianca, a dash of colour in a scarlet skiing suit, make a snowman on the lawn in front of the house. Marcus had slumped against the steering-wheel – ‘I’ve failed him, I’ve failed him,’ – and, in utter despair, had driven home.

  Now he was going to fail Rupert again by selling the Munnings. He could imagine the letter arriving from Sotheby’s. ‘We’ve just got in a painting that might interest you,’ and his father’s lip curling when he saw the polaroid.

  But the only thing in the pipeline was a concert at Ilkley which would cost him as much in petrol as the fee. Oh God, when would he get a break? He was trying to learn one of Liszt’s Mephisto Waltzes, but as he sat down at the piano, his fingers were too stiff and frozen to master the diabolical twists and turns, which reminded him of Rannaldini. Helen was pressuring him to join them both for Christmas. Marcus would rather stay in bed without food or heating.

  It was half a minute before he realized the telephone was ringing; he only just got there.

  ‘This is Miles Brian-Knowles,’ said a prim, fastidious voice.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ stammered Marcus, which wasn’t a good start. Miles probably needed a babysitter.

  Instead he said the RSO had been badly let down by Benny Basanovich.

  ‘Says he’s got flu, diplomatic, I imagine. It’s a short piece, only six minutes and quite honestly there’s so much din going on, the odd wrong note won’t matter. It’s Sonny Parker’s Interruption Suite. We’re recording it live. I wondered if you’d be interested?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Marcus was desperate to accept before Miles changed his mind, or remembered Marcus had once been so rude to Peggy Parker.

  ‘Is a thousand pounds enough?’

  ‘More than.’ In passionate relief, Marcus’s head dropped onto the top of the piano. ‘You’ve saved my life.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no time for an orchestral rehearsal, but if you make your way over to the hall, I can give you the score and a practice room.’

  ‘Oh thank you, thank you, Father Christmas has arrived a week early.’

  Miles was touched.

  ‘It’s a pleasure. I wish all transactions were as easy.’

  In her pigeon hole that evening, Flora found a bunch of white roses.

  Darling Flora, said the accompanying note. Just apologizing in advance for my appalling behaviour later on this evening, Love Viking.

  Flora gave a whoop of ecstasy. Dancing down the passage singing Boléro, she went slap into George Hungerford.

  ‘Why the bloody hell don’t you look where you’re going?’

  ‘Dum de-de-de. De-de, de-de, de-de dum, de-de-de,’ sang Flora, weaving round him into the women’s changing-room, where, to Clare, Candy, Nellie, Mary, Hilary and Juno’s irritation, she fought for once just as fiercely, as they did, for a space in front of the communal mirror.

  ‘You don’t normally wear make-up,’ said Juno accusingly.

  ‘You look really, really pretty,’ said Clare in amazement.

  Flora broke open the cellophane with her teeth and handed her new eye-liner to Nellie.

  ‘Can you paint it on – my hands are shaking too much.’

  ‘Why are you suddenly so nervous?’ demanded Hilary.

  ‘Because my mate, Marcus, is making his début.’

  ‘That is one hell of a sassy dress,’ said Candy in wonder, as Flora slithered into a knee-length satin shift, only held up by two ribbon straps.

  ‘You can’t wear that, or those,’ spluttered Hilary, as Flora tucked her hair into a black velvet toggle and slotted in two of Viking’s white roses.

  ‘Mais, bien sûr,’ Flora wrapped a black silky mantilla round her shoulders, ‘particularly as we’re playing Boléro.’ And clacking her fingers like castanets, she danced out into the passage.

  ‘What has got into her?’ asked a shocked Juno.

  Sonny’s Interruption, a grisly one-note job for orchestra, piano, burglar-alarm, fax, telephone bleeper, railway train, back-firing car, pneumatic drill, coughing, snoring, rustling and lavatory chain, was to be recorded after the interval and before Boléro and the singing of carols. Sonny had diverted most of the brass section to the Ladies’ lavatory to provide a flushing chorus. Cherub and the percussion section had gone beserk in rehearsal, imitating the various sounds.

  Having plink-plonked his way through the piano part several times in his dressing-room, Marcus decided he couldn’t be nervous about something quite so silly – particularly when Sonny strutted in to give last-minute advice, wearing a collarless scarlet tunic, white silk trousers, red satin slippers and a white-and-red scarf round his ponytail.

  ‘Hallo, Marcus Black,’ he said in his reedy voice. ‘You must not be daunted by the complexities. Mozart appeared complex, too. Like my work, the beauty, richness and depth bewildered his first listeners.’

  He then suggested Marcus ran through the solo, paddling away with suggested fingering, and shoving his bony pelvis so hard into Marcus’s back, Marcus nearly elbowed him in the groin.

  Fortunately Flora barged in to wish Marcus luck.

  Sonny was livid.

  ‘I told Miles – no interruptions.’

  ‘But the work is all about interruptions. Shall I go out, and come in and interrupt again to get you both in the mood?’

  Marcus laughed. Sonny flounced off.

  ‘No-one looks prettier in tails than you do,’ said Flora in delight.

  ‘Or in black than you.’

  There was a sparkle in her eyes that Marcus hadn’t seen for years.

  As he tugged the maidenhair fern from behind a white carnation, graciously presented to him by Peggy Parker, he added: ‘Someone will have to turn the pages for me.’

  ‘I shall be hidden among the violas, thank God, and if the audience pelts us with tomatoes I hope they put basil on them.’

  As Sonny had written in no trombone parts, Dixie volunteered for the job as page-turner, but, having been boozing all day, he couldn’t take it seriously.

  ‘Exciting having off-stage cow-bells,’ murmured Marcus, as they hovered in the wings.

  ‘Particularly when it’s conducted by an on-stage cow,’ said Dixie, as Sonny minced out of the conductor’s room and swept him and Marcus onto an exceedingly crowded platform.

  There were overhead mikes for Marcus and each section, and bigger mikes dotted around the auditorium for general ambience. Sonny gave a little fluting speech, reminding the audience they were taking part in an experience as creatively significant as the first performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony or Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder.

  ‘Remember your clap or cough will be recorded for posterity, so make it loud, and wait for the red light.’

  Dixie proceeded to belch loudly into Marcus’s microphone.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ cried Sonny, who loved big butch Glaswegians, ‘but save it for the red light.’

  The audience looked frightfully excited, delighted to have something as beautiful as Marcus to gaze at if the music became too demanding.

  On came the red light, up started the atrocious din. Dixie couldn’t stop laughing particularly when the lavatory chains wouldn’t pull in time, and the audience, having been exhorted by Sonny to cough as much as possible, found they couldn’t stop. Viking and Barry the Bass rang each other up on their mobiles and chatted throughout.

  Marcus was thumping away, trying to be heard over the uproar, when Little Cherub, racing back from xylophone to cow-bells, took a flying leap and fell flat on his face. Dixie was in such hys
terics, he knocked Marcus’s score onto the floor, and picking it up, shoved it back upside-down by mistake.

  Flora had also chosen that moment to wriggle out of her black mantilla. Viking was not the only musician to be distracted by the beauty of her shoulders. Dixie was so mesmerized, there was no way Marcus could attract his attention to put his music the right way up. The only answer was to ad lib, plink-plonking away to the end. Immediately the audience leapt to their feet applauding wildly so that their clap could be recorded for posterity.

  ‘Only getting up to relieve their piles,’ said Dixie scornfully.

  But Marcus had slunk off the stage, petrified the wrath of Parker was going to descend on him for playing the wrong ending. Instead, after taking three bows, an ecstatic Sonny rushed into Marcus’s dressing-room, saying his work had never been so movingly interpreted.

  ‘I wept. I could not understand how I could write such beautiful music. Mumsy, Mumsy,’ cried Sonny, as Peggy swept in in a mauve satin marquee, ‘I am going to write a concerto for Marcus Black.’

  Marcus cringed behind the upright piano.

  But Peggy was prepared to let bygones be byge-owns, and presented Marcus with a large Christmas hamper.

  ‘You’ve done my Sonny proud, we look forward to receiving you at Rutminster Towers.’

  Cherub also received a smaller hamper for being wounded in action, and the brass section were each given a bottle of champagne for pulling the chain so meaningfully.

  Gilbert and Gwynneth were also in raptures. They had never seen a Rutminster audience enjoy themselves so much. At last music was being brought to the people. They made a point of seeking Marcus out and commending his sensitive playing.

  ‘We’re staying in the Close with Canon Airlie,’ whispered Gwynneth, ‘please drop in for carols and wassail later.’

  ‘You’re terribly kind,’ Marcus ducked to avoid a flying earring.

  ‘We’re going to hear a good deal more of Black,’ said Gilbert as he drifted out.

  That boy’s done well, thought George, he made a diabolical piece of music sound almost good.