by Jilly Cooper
All the other jurors fought to sit next to him so they could wile away the tedious hours of Bach and Debussy, reading about the fattest dog, the largest elephant or the heaviest twins in history.
Meanwhile the Irish judge, nicknamed ‘Deirdre of the Drowned Sorrows’ by Dame Edith, was quietly getting through a good litre of red wine a day. Boris was getting through about the same, but was a little happier, having orchestrated a whole act of King Lear. The Chinese judge had reached Schumann’s first signs of madness on his laptop. Jennifer had put on half a stone eating digestive biscuits.
The ancient Latvian judge, who had promised to vote for Natalia after caballing in the pool with Rannaldini, had not fared so well, and was now in bed with a head cold, unlikely to make the final. Rannaldini was so enraged to have wasted so much time on her, and even crosser when a grinning Dame Edith suggested Jennifer should take the Latvian’s place, that he was reduced to bonking Hermione in the lunch-hour.
Once again Marcus was the last to play. This time his agonizing wait was extended because Natalia had insisted on finishing Liszt’s Dante Sonata, despite Lady Appleton’s bell, and then complained bitterly about the brittle tinny sound of the new piano. A piano tuner was subsequently summoned and, after laboriously checking the piano, announced it was in perfect order.
Marcus bore this out by dispatching the Bach Busoni Chaconne with exquisite clarity and warmth, making the allegedly brittle and tinny piano reverberate like an organ. The jury were entranced, particularly by the accompanying drumroll from a lunchless Hermione’s tummy.
‘Even such an intellectual piece becomes audience-friendly under his fingers,’ murmured Bruce Kennedy.
‘No-one looks better in a dark suit than Marcus,’ sighed Pablo.
The Bach was followed by Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata which was going splendidly until the middle of the slow movement, when Marcus pressed down the soft pedal for the first time to add a little colour. He then discovered to his horror that the pedal had jammed, and as a result only two out of the three strings were being struck in the treble.
He was so thrown he momentarily lost his place and ground to a halt. Throughout the rest of the slow movement, and the ravishing flowing rondo, which was why Marcus had chosen the Waldstein in the first place, he had to bash away like Benny in an attempt to be heard at all by the jury in the dress circle.
Convinced the piano had been got at, Marcus came off the platform in a white-hot rage and immediately complained to the waiting officials. This was regarded as dreadfully unsporting. Natalia kicking up about a tinny sound was quite different to accusations of sabotage. Back came the piano tuner huffing and puffing.
‘When instruments are out of tune in an orchestra,’ he grumbled, ‘everyone blames the musician, when a piano’s out of tune, everyone blames the tuner,’ and having taken the piano apart once more, proved there was nothing wrong with it.
Still utterly unconvinced, Marcus escaped from the uproar and the lurking Press and stormed round the town square until shortness of breath forced him to collapse onto a hard bench. Opposite, against a pinky-yellow evening sky, was the town hall, where he certainly wouldn’t be playing on Sunday.
‘I’m sorry, Alexei,’ he muttered almost in tears, ‘I’ve let you down.’
How could he possibly be a great artist who only belonged to the world, when he couldn’t even make the final of a piddling piano competition?
To his right was a statue of the first Lord Appleton, examining a roll of cloth and with bird lime all over his frock coat and top hat. What was the point of becoming famous anyway? The Press dumped on you when you were alive, and pigeons when you were dead.
‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,’ sighed Marcus.
Meanwhile the judges had retreated into the jurors’ room to select the last six, unimpeded by parents, teachers, agents and representatives from the various countries. The contestants had retreated to the bar. The consensus of opinion was that Marcus had blown it.
‘Although they always have a Brit in the last six to pull in the crowds,’ said Benny snidely.
Piano competitions, however, do not end with the presentation of the award and a cheque for twenty thousand pounds. Afterwards the winner is assured a couple of years’ engagements in the greatest concert halls of the world. In the past, winners had often had difficulty coping with this pressure. The reputation of the Appleton worldwide depended on choosing a winner who could.
Reliability was therefore considered even more important than talent; someone who would carry out these engagements without letting them down, someone who wouldn’t make mistakes in recordings.
Rannaldini was soon at work influencing the jury.
‘Regretfully,’ he said winningly, ‘I must abstain from voting for my dear stepson, Marcus, but speaking totally impartially, although it pains me to do so, I feel the boy did not project enough, particularly in the Waldstein, where he gave a very flat two-dimensional performance.’
‘Bollocks,’ thundered Dame Edith. ‘He played exquisitely in the Chaconne, and in the first half of the Waldstein he had something quite beyond the notes.’
‘He had a memory lapse,’ snapped Rannaldini, who now that he had Dame Edith’s job, didn’t need to suck up to her any more.
‘Probably just nerves,’ snapped back Dame Edith.
She felt Marcus should go through. Pablo and Bruce Kennedy agreed. Pablo said he would resign if Marcus didn’t. The Russian, Sergei, deliberately voting against Bruce Kennedy, said he would resign if Marcus did. The Waldstein had no passion. He agreed with Rannaldini the boy was a ‘veemp’. Two of the old bids from Poland and Yugoslavia, who’d been chatted up by Rannaldini, and accepted promises of help from him for several of their pupils, voted against Marcus as well. So did Hermione, because Rannaldini told her to, and Deirdre O’Neill, because she hated the English. So did the vast Ukrainian because he was voting tactically. The ancient Swedish judge, who had only been kept awake after lunch by Benny’s banging, and nodded off afterwards, felt guilty he’d slept through the Chaconne and gave Marcus an amazing ten out of ten. The French judge loathed both Rannaldini and Sergei and had a crush on Dame Edith, so she gave him nine.
Lili voted against him because Rannaldini pinched her bottom in the lift and promised her a concert in New York. Ernesto promptly voted for Marcus because he was jealous of Rannaldini, so did Boris, which tied the score and a casting vote was needed.
‘Blodwyn,’ purred Rannaldini.
Lady Appleton looked up from a long list: Warm-up piano to be delivered, seven outside broadcast vans to be parked, seven microphones . . . and thought her name had never been pronounced so seductively.
‘Sorry, Maestro?’
‘Do you theenk Marcus Campbell-Black should go through?’ Surely not said those compelling inquisitorial night-black eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Lady Appleton.
Her friend, Mrs Bateson, had said the boy was a genius.
Taking Jennifer for a widdle in the town square, Dame Edith passed Marcus gazing into space with such a look of desolation on his face.
‘You’re through, you chump,’ she yelled. ‘And I agree – that piano was got at.’
All the favoured candidates – Han Chai, Carl the jokey homespun Texan, Anatole the moody Russian, Natalia and Benny – had made it. Marcus was the only outsider. A few tears were shed by the disappointed contestants. Lord Gargrave, on whose piano a brilliant German candidate had practised, was so upset the poor fellow hadn’t gone through that he invited him to stay on for a weekend’s shooting.
Euphoric that they had two days off before the finals, Edith, Irish Deirdre, Boris and Pablo Gonzales, who’d never had Lancashire Hot Pot before, dined together at the Dog and Duck on the edge of the moor.
‘If I see another pair of crossed hands I go cuckoo,’ said Pablo, collapsing into a chair and handing his sticks to the waiter.
‘Bloody awful dump that Prince of Wales,’ said Edith, splashing red wine into everyone’s g
lasses. ‘Lousy grub, piddling rooms and a fax takes two minutes from Kenya and half a day to get upstairs. How’s Lear?’ she asked Boris.
‘Nearly finished. Now I wonder what to do next.’
‘Wheech is the largest newt in the world?’ asked Pablo who refused to be parted from his Guinness Book of Records.
‘Probably me,’ said Deirdre, who was already well away.
‘Wheech is the fattest cat?’
‘Rannaldini,’ said Dame Edith, smothering a roll with butter. ‘I’m sure he’s rigging the votes. Blodwyn’s such an innocent. I voted for that German boy.’
‘So deed I,’ said Pablo, ‘I even stop reading thees wondairful book when he play the Prokofiev.’
‘So did Deirdre and I,’ said Boris. ‘He still didn’t make it.’
‘At least we all got Marcus through,’ said Dame Edith with satisfaction.
‘I didn’t,’ said Deirdre stonily. ‘God protect me if I ever vote for a Brit.’
‘Don’t be unsporting,’ boomed Edith, waving to the waiter for some more red.
‘You weren’t married to one,’ snapped Deirdre.
I nearly am, thought Edith.
Even though she and Monica were running up massive bills ringing each other every day, she didn’t believe it were possible to miss anyone as much. The fax that had taken so long to get upstairs was Monica’s confirmation of their purchase of a cottage with a stretch of river in the west of Scotland. The prospect of Monica in breast waders made Edith’s mind mist over, and she herself would be able to compose full time. She hadn’t written anything she was really proud of since The Persuaders in 1980.
But she felt dreadfully guilty that like George Hungerford she had sold her orchestra down the river for love. Once she had announced her absolute determination to retire, the CCO had been forced to look for a new musical director and had searched no further than Rannaldini. Both orchestra and management had voted him in unanimously.
‘He’s the only person who could ever take your place, Edith,’ said Hugo.
The bastard had seduced the lot of them with his alarming charm. But if Edith hadn’t wanted Monica and out so desperately, she would have tried harder to dissuade them.
She was brought back to earth by Deirdre’s grumbling.
‘Lancashire Hot Pot is exactly like Irish Stew. Talk about another British rip-off.’
‘Very delicious though,’ said Pablo with his mouth full. ‘Do you know which is most venomous snake in world?’
‘Rannaldini,’ they all said in unison.
SIXTY-FIVE
Marcus was flabbergasted that he’d got so far. He was also ashamed how much he was enjoying himself. The bracing northern winds seemed to have blown away all his worries and obsessions, and more importantly his asthma. He got on very well with all the other finalists, and they had great fun on their two days off before the final, sightseeing, eating fish and chips, playing ping-pong and cheering Anatole on in the pub talent competition.
Marcus was relieved Helen had temporarily shoved off to London. He was also tremendously touched when the huge Ukrainian judge took him aside. As the contestant from the Ukraine had gone out in the last round, he no longer had a vested interest. The majority of the jury, he felt, despite Rannaldini, were, in reality rooting for Marcus.
‘We vant you to vin, but we theenk you must change to heavyveight concerto, Brahms One or Two or Rachmaninov Three, something more explosive, more dramatic. The Schumann may be the graveyard of musicians, but it sound very easy. It ees not theatrical enough to impress jury or bring audience to their foots.’
Marcus’s eyes filled with tears. He felt the kind words had somehow come straight from Alexei. But beyond thanking the big Ukrainian profusely, he explained he’d worked on the Schumann so he’d stay with it.
‘If there ees any chance to win, zee English start to feel sorry for other contestants,’ sighed the Ukrainian.
The finals would take place on Saturday and Sunday, with Carl, Anatole and Han Chai playing their concertos on the first night, and Benny, Natalia and Marcus playing on the second.
Abby had rung Marcus with a change of plan, saying she’d be leaving the States the next night and flying straight to Manchester, arriving in Appleton first thing on Saturday morning to rehearse with the first three finalists in the afternoon.
America, Abby told him, had been terrific, and it was even more terrific he’d made the final.
‘The only problem, I guess, is that Woodbine Cottage has been burglarized. Thank God the cats were in kennels, and they didn’t take anything except the TV and the video, although the cops fingerprinted Flora’s vibrator.’
‘What about my studio?’ said Marcus, who’d gone cold thinking of Alexei’s letters under the floorboards.
‘No, nothing appears to be gone from there.’
Marcus was ashamed how relieved he felt to have another forty-eight hours without Abby. Mrs Bateson, jubilant he had gone through, cooked him roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and apple tart for lunch, and gave him a little jet cat for luck.
‘You must really project on Sunday,’ she begged him, ‘you’ve no idea how absorbent the good people of Appleton are when they crowd into the town hall.’
On Friday morning there was a press conference, where naturally the attention focused on Marcus.
‘I’m so knocked out to make the finals,’ he told the journalists, ‘that as long as I play well on Sunday, I don’t mind too much about winning.’
In the afternoon, the finalists were taken for a drive over the bleak, but ravishing countryside, which now flamed with bracken. They ended up having supper in the Dog and Duck which was a quarter of a mile down the road from St Theresa’s.
Marcus, who’d been asked by Lady Appleton to keep an eye on Anatole, was having great difficulty keeping the Russian sober. He must go to bed early if he were to cope with Brahms’ mighty First Concerto tomorrow. But Anatole had got even deeper into the pub talent competition and wouldn’t stop singing “Knees up Muzzer Brown”, with the landlord. Han Chai had fallen in love with the homespun Carl, who still couldn’t decide whether to play in his plaid jacket or a borrowed DJ. They sat holding hands drinking Coca-Cola in the corner. Benny, who had forty-eight hours to sober up before he played his concerto, was knocking back Bacardi and drunkenly propositioning Natalia, who, looking at her watch, was wondering if Rannaldini was back from London, and would somehow tonight infiltrate himself into her bedroom at St Theresa’s like a cat burglar. She quivered with desire. No-one had ever been so marvellous to her.
Before the competition he had also given her some beta-blockers to calm her nerves.
‘And do see eef you can persuade Marcus to have one before he plays, but don’t say they come from me; sadly my stepson ’ates me, and wouldn’t touch them. But I so long for heem to do well.’
How could anyone hate Rannaldini? wondered Natalia.
Marcus sat ekeing out a glass of red, still stunned at reaching the finals, idly playing ‘To the Life Boats, to the Life Boats’, on the pub table wondering what had happened to the soft pedal on Wednesday, wishing he could feel more enthusiastic about Abby arriving tomorrow. Across the pub he could see Anatole thumping out ‘You are My Sunshine’, his eyes creased with laughter above the high cheek-bones. Marcus felt hollow with longing for Alexei.
It was several seconds before he realized the barman was shouting, ‘Marcus Campbell-Black. Phone for Marcus Campbell-Black’.
Marcus winced. He had insisted on dropping the ‘Campbell’ for the competition. But hearing his famous name, people nudged and stared as he edged through the tables. He had told Alexei he never wanted to hear from him again but always when the telephone rang he prayed it might be him. Equally irrationally he had prayed all week for a good-luck card. The telephone was in an alcove by the stairs. The walls were covered with numbers.
‘Hallo,’ he picked up the receiver, ‘you’ll have to speak up, there’s a hell of a din going on here.’
/> ‘Hi, Marcus. I gather congratulations are in order on your engagement to Abby Rosen. Lucky sod, when are you getting married?’
Hearing the whining, thin, ingratiating, very common, male voice, Marcus started to tremble.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘It’s The Scorpion.’
‘I’ve nothing to say.’ Marcus was drenched in sweat.
‘We wanted to run a little story about you getting to the finals of the Appleton. Abby must be knocked out. It’ll be hard for her not to favour you.’
Marcus was about to hang up, when the voice thickened and became even oilier, almost lascivious with menace. ‘Another thing. We’ve got in our possession some letters to you written by Alexei Nemerovsky.’
Marcus couldn’t breathe, his crashing heart seemed to have filled his lungs and windpipe.
‘Hallo, are you there? They make very interesting reading. Things were obviously pretty passionate between you, particularly in Prague when you broke the bed.’
‘I don’t know what you’re taking about,’ croaked Marcus. ‘I never wrote any letters to Alexei, he never wrote any to me.’
‘Oh come, come. Some of them are very poetic: “My little white dove lying warm and no longer frightened in my hands”.’
‘They’re fakes,’ wheezed Marcus. ‘P-please burn them, My father and mother . . . no-one could be interested.’
‘I think they could. It’s very much in the public interest. Two household names like your dad and Nemerovsky, not to mention L’Appassionata, lovely girl, Abby, tried to top herself last time a man cheated on her. Think you’ve been quite fair to her?’
‘No, yes, it must have been you who broke into the cottage.’ Oh Christ, he shouldn’t have said that. ‘You don’t have any right to publish those letters.’
‘That’s a matter for the lawyers. We’re going with the story anyway. We just wanted to give you the chance to put your point of view to us.’ The voice became suddenly cosy, the mental nurse about to hand over the valium. ‘We’re talking six figures, I’m sure you could use the money.’