Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  With huge yuccas to left and right of the door, there was no escape. Wincing as Clive grabbed his arm, Viking turned, looking into the vicious, unpitying face of Death.

  ‘The basstard had it coming,’ muttered Viking.

  For a second or two, Death stared at him, then suddenly warmed up and smiled almost affectionately.

  ‘Couldn’t agree with you more, dear,’ lisped Clive. ‘Been waiting ten years for someone to give Rannaldini his comeuppance. May I shake you by the hand?’

  Then, as Viking’s jaw dropped, Nathan bounded in through the revolving doors with a grin as wide as the keys on a Steinway, and thrust the menacing object into Viking’s hand.

  ‘You dropped your wallet, man.’

  ‘We’d very much like to buy you a drink,’ said Clive.

  ‘It’s very generous of you both,’ Viking started to shake, not entirely with laughter.

  Through the revolving doors, he could see his taxi-driver polishing off a pork pie and a can of lager to sustain him after the first leg of the journey from Holyhead.

  ‘I’m on my way to Heathrow,’ said Viking, ‘but perhaps I’ve josst got time for a quick one.’

  Rannaldini, swearing vengeance, had disappeared to wash crême brulée out of his pewter hair before the emergency board meeting, when the bellboy walked in with a telephone.

  ‘Call for you, Mr Hungerford.’

  As George lifted the receiver, everyone around him could hear the frantic squawking as if a hen had just laid a dinosaur’s egg.

  ‘Mr Hungerford,’ cried Miss Priddock, ‘Ay saw you in the audience. Thank goodness you’re back. An amazin’ thing has happened. I don’t know quaite how to tell you.’

  ‘Try,’ said George unhelpfully.

  But as he listened, his I-don’t-want-to-be-bothered-with-paper-clips scowl creased into a huge smile.

  ‘That is amazing, Miss P. Woonderful in fact. Are you at home? I’ll call you later. Yes, it was great – Marcus won.’

  As he switched off the telephone, he turned to Flora: ‘Well done, John Droommond.’

  ‘He’s caught the biggest rat in the world?’ giggled Flora.

  Cherub had reached the prehistoric chapter, his finger moving shakily along the line: ‘The largessht exshtinct animal in the world wash the two hundred and fifty ton supersaurus,’ he informed his audience.

  ‘And the most extinct ensemble in the world,’ said George draining his glass of brandy, ‘is Rannaldini’s Super Orchestra.’

  CODA

  ‘Happy birthday,’ said Gisela, thrusting out a big bunch of autumn crocuses.

  Abby looked round listlessly and put down her violin.

  ‘Thank you, they’re lovely,’ she examined the delicate veins on the pale mauve petals. ‘In fact they’re exquisite. You’re so good to me, Gisela. I’d forgotten it was my birthday. I guess hitting thirty’s kind of painless compared with losing everything else in my life.’

  ‘The autumn crocus bloom when everything else is dying,’ said the housekeeper gently.

  ‘Oh Gisela,’ Abby turned hastily towards the window to hide her tears. She had already wept enough to fill Lake Lucerne, which as far as the eye could see sparkled brilliant blue and utterly unsympathetic in the afternoon sunshine.

  In her old rust-red jersey and brown suede skirt, which was now hopelessly loose on her, she had all the sad defencelessness of an autumn leaf blown against the window.

  ‘You must eat, child,’ urged Gisela. ‘I’ve just made onion soup and there’s bread fresh from the oven.’

  ‘You’re so darling, I’m sorry, I’m just not hungry, and I can’t practise any more. I’ll take a walk along the lake. Can you put the flowers in water? Thank you, I just love them.’

  Handing back the crocuses, Abby ran from the room. A crawling restlessness, an inability to settle to anything was part of her malaise.

  ‘Put on a coat,’ Gisela shouted after her, but the front door had banged.

  Gisela had never seen such despair.

  Abby reminded her of a child, whose family had all been killed, huddling in the ruins of a bombed-out city.

  It was a beautiful day. The air was misty and silky. The lake, reflecting a big cloud that had drifted overhead, was grey-blue now. Little waves caressed the banks along which autumn blazed. Amid the amber gloom of the woods, the beeches stood out stinging red like huntsmen riding by. Abby could almost hear their horns. Oh Viking, Viking!

  Splashing through the puddles from last night’s deluge, she battled to come to terms with the anguish of last weekend. After the first dreadful shock of being conned and betrayed, Marcus being outed had been almost a relief. It explained his lack of desire (except for those heady frenzied days when he’d first met Alexei), which had made her feel such a failure as a woman. But she missed him as a best friend, as she missed Flora, who now belonged to George. In addition, her violin wouldn’t sing to her, and she was eaten up with guilt and sadness at abandoning her friends in the orchestra to the non-existent mercies of Rannaldini. She had let them down, she had blabbed to the Press. She had loved not wisely.

  But it was the loss of Viking that wiped her out. Not only did she frantically crave his love-making, but only now did she appreciate how much she had looked forward to seeing him every day, how his dreadful sexist cracks had warmed her blood.

  What d’you call a woman maestro? Mattress. Oh Viking, she sighed, you can lie on me whenever you want. How she’d enjoyed the sparring, how she missed his kindness, his louche elegance, the sun in his arms.

  I’ve grown accustomed to his face, thought Abby, as she watched the leaves drifting down for a last kiss with their reflection on the surface of the lake.

  ‘It was my thirtieth year to heaven,’ she quoted sadly. ‘My birthday began with the waterbirds . . . and I rose in rainy autumn and walked abroad in a shower of all my days.’

  What the hell could she do with the rest of all her days? She couldn’t go back to the loneliness of being a soloist. Being the tallest poppy, waiting to be hacked down, the Press pulling out her petals, this week we love her, this week we love her not. She supposed she could try for a job as a leader. But as a soloist, she had her own distinctive sound. She would have to learn to fuse with the rest of the orchestra.

  I’ve never been able to fuse with anything in my life, she thought wearily.

  She had the temporary security of Rodney’s house on the lake, but that was being contested by his family. She missed Rodney so much, too. Every room was filled with his ghost, a faint waft of lemon cologne and cigars. Every evening, she expected him to bounce in brandishing a bottle of champagne, wearing nothing but his pin-striped apron.

  ‘Oh well, it was worth a try.’

  Only now did she realize how much Rodney had given her, letting her stay for so long, putting up with her tantrums, always ready to listen. She was sure his big heart had failed in the end because he had given so much of it away to other people. She wished he could send her a fax just to tell her he was OK.

  Ahead Mount Pilatus, already covered in snow, gleamed in the sunshine. Pilate had come to the lake to suffer.

  ‘How did you hack it, Pontius?’ pleaded Abby. ‘If you and God have made it up, put in a good word. It was my thirtieth year to heaven,’ she intoned wearily, as she shuffled through a thick carpet of curling sycamore leaves, ‘or rather hell.’

  She had drawn level with the little island, about sixty yards from the shore. Willows, alders, and tall ashes, hung with glittering grey pelts of traveller’s joy, crowded its banks. Every puff of wind sent a shower of gold leaves drifting into the water, some falling into a little crimson rowing boat, with pale blue oars, which Abby suddenly noticed moored in the rushes.

  Halting to listen to the water birds calling, Abby suddenly froze. No, it couldn’t be. They didn’t have hunting in this part of Switzerland. But there it was again, pa, pa, pa, the faint, sweet, sad sound of the horn drifting across the water.

  Abby felt her whole bod
y prickling, her hair rising, her tummy bungy-jumping without the aid of any rope. It must be the ghost of Hans Richter, the greatest conductor of his age, come back to mock her, as one who had failed. I’m going crazy, thought Abby, it must be exhaustion and lack of food.

  Pa, pa, pa. There it was again, and not just any horn, no-one played with that dash and raw radiance. Sliding down the bank to the edge of the lake, straining her ears, Abby tried to hush the galloping crescendo of her heart beat, which threatened to blot out all sound.

  It was coming from the island. Totally unaware of what she was doing, drawn by her longing, Abby crashed through the bull rushes into the icy water. For the horn had stopped tuning up and was now playing the soft infinitely tender love theme from Ein Heldenleben, when, after the tantrums, the bitching of the critics, the catalogue of past achievements and the great battle, the hero and his wife are blissfully reunited.

  Oh, how beautiful it was. The rich dark notes were calling to her, weaving round her like a great purring panther. Abby stood knee deep and quivering, unable to believe what she was hearing, then she plunged into the water, gasping first at the cold, pushing through a thick gratin of leaves, then when she was out of her depth, swimming faster and faster.

  ‘Viking,’ she croaked as she came up for air, then choking and spitting. ‘Oh Viking, I’m here, I’m here.’

  And he had heard. As if in a dream, she saw him fighting his way through the nearest clump of yellow trees, then pause on the bank, gold conch in his hand with the traveller’s joy draping his shoulders like the grey wolf-pelts of some Viking conqueror. His face was deathly white, his slitty eyes, beneath eyelids heavier than thunderclouds, were searching and anguished.

  ‘Oh Abby, I was only bossking.’ Then he chucked his gleaming horn in the rushes, and slithering down the bank, fell into her arms. For a second, he glanced down at her dripping face and removed a strand of weed from her hair with a desperately shaking hand. She could feel his heart crashing against hers. Then he buried his lips in hers, kissing her on and on, holding her tighter and tighter. Then as she wriggled free, hiding her face in his black-and-green plaid shirt, he muttered:

  ‘Oh Abby, darling, darling, my darling, I’ve been such a basstard to you. But I can’t live a single second longer without you. I’ll die, I’ll be cast away on an island of desolation for the rest of my life unless you rescue me.’

  Abby looked up in bewilderment, but saw no jokes, no mockery, only tenderness in his face. And he was so pale.

  ‘You’re not sick?’ Worried, she touched his cheek.

  ‘Only with love.’

  ‘And I love you,’ gasped Abby, ‘I’ve been so unhappy.’

  Suddenly she was sobbing and shivering so violently that Viking pulled her up the bank, holding back the trees and leading her into a little clearing. Then he put his leather jacket round her and pulled her down onto a mossy log, holding her close and telling her he loved her until she was quiet and still.

  ‘Why did you run away without saying goodbye?’ she wailed.

  ‘Because I knew you hated me. I had to win that horrible bet, in case anyone else got you. I went home to Ireland to distance myself, to try and get over you, but I couldn’t. It was like a party political broadcast on all four channels telling me how lovvly you were. I didn’t want to opset you, so I thought I’d wait till after the Appleton. Blue rang me and said you’d been sacked. I couldn’t stay away any more. I just prayed you might need me.’

  ‘Need you?’ Abby wriggled even closer to him. ‘I’ve done that from the moment I saw you.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Viking shook his head. ‘I just took longer to admit it.’

  Abby put her hand up to touch the scar where her ring had lashed his cheek.

  ‘I was so horrible to you.’

  ‘Not nearly as horrible as I was to you. And did you know we’ve been looking everywhere for you? Gisela only confessed you were here last night, because she was so worried.’

  ‘She never told me you’d called,’ said Abby indignantly. ‘Why didn’t you speak to me?’

  ‘I bottled out, I was scared of saying the wrong thing.’ Getting up Viking retrieved his horn from the rushes. ‘This is the only way I can really express my love for you. Till I met you, my heart was onbreakable like a CD,’ he half-smiled. ‘That one you stamped on still plays.’

  Gathering up her hair at the back, he twisted it round and round squeezing out the water.

  ‘My Rosen d’être, I want to give you the world,’ he said falteringly, ‘but I being poor have only my dreams. But I won’t be poor for long,’ he added with a touch of his old swagger, ‘I’m going to get my act together, make a bomb as a soloist, keep you in fine style, and stop being a womanizer.’

  Abby laughed shakily.

  ‘You’re not a womanizer, you’re a charmer.’

  ‘Orpheus with his lute. I’ve come to lead you out of the Onderworld, back to Rotminster. They all miss you.’

  ‘Only because I’ve left – and what about Rannaldini?’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Otterly routed. He hadn’t a clay foot to stand on after the way he screwed up Marcus in the finals.’ Then, at Abby’s look of bewilderment, added, ‘Marcus won, you know.’

  ‘He won?’ gasped Abby incredulously. ‘But that’s wonderful.’

  ‘He made a fantastic winner’s speech, live and straight to camera, telling everyone he loved you, but he was no good for you because he was gay and that you should be reinstated.’

  ‘That’s incredible,’ Abby’s eyes spilled over with tears. ‘Oh, how darling of Marcus. Where is he?’

  Viking’s arms tightened round her.

  ‘Please don’t be sad, sweetheart – he’s gone to Moscow.’

  ‘My God! To Alexei.’

  ‘You don’t still love him, you’re not too opset?’ Viking’s face was suddenly so fearful and worried, Abby had to kiss him better, entwining her body with his, melting into him until she thought he was going to take her then and there in the leafy clearing.

  ‘God, I’m so lucky,’ he murmured. ‘And Nugent promises not to eat Sibelius or Scriabin.’

  Abby smiled, still unable to take it all in. Then she nearly fell back into the water in amazement as she heard the most glorious cacophony. Leaping to her feet, she was just turning towards the bank, when Viking, who had also jumped up, clamped her to his chest.

  ‘Josst listen,’ he whispered.

  Now I really am going crazy, thought Abby, as a full orchestra belted out, admittedly somewhat haphazardly, the first bars of Ein Heldenleben before switching to ‘Happy Birthday’.

  Struggling frantically until Viking loosened his grasp, Abby wriggled round, then she gazed and gazed, clutching his hand, leaning against him for support as the tears flowed down her cheeks. For the entire RSO still in their white ties and tails and last night’s black dresses were grinning at her from the bank.

  They were all standing out of order and obviously in the middle of a splendid party. Randy and Dixie were brandishing champagne bottles as well as their instruments. Dimitri was mopping his eyes, with Miss Parrott fondly beside him, her harp blending into the golden woods behind. Julian and Francis were brandishing a huge streamer, saying ‘Happy 30th Birthday, Abby’. Juno – my goodness – was dancing cheek to cheek with Charlton Handsome, and – even more my goodness – there was Lord Leatherhead doing a stately jive with Peggy Parker, while Old Cyril merrily bopped with Old Henry, and a totally unharassed Knickers twisted the day away with Militant Moll.

  In the background stood George, happily smoking a huge cigar and hugging a giggling Flora who was trying to play her viola. As Isobel and Ninion let off a great volley of bangers, a little boat struck out from the bank, with Noriko rowing through the yellow leaves, and Cherub frantically pinging his triangle.

  ‘Herro. Abby, Herro,’ called out Noriko.

  ‘Actually she’s a heroine,’ shouted back Viking.

 
; Then everyone cheered and cheered.

  ‘I d-d-don’t understand,’ whispered Abby.

  ‘They had an emergency board meeting last night after the competition,’ said Viking, wiping her eyes, ‘and George decided to charter a plane to fly us all out. It’s been one helluva bash. We dropped Miles and Hilly in the English Channel.’

  ‘But George shouldn’t be wasting money charting planes, when we’re bankrupt.’

  ‘We’re not any more,’ Viking could hardly speak for laughing. ‘John Drommond won the lottery, so even if you programme Winifred Trapp every day, we’ll still be solvent in the year 2000.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ muttered Abby.

  ‘Indeed you can, darling. It’s the only way they can tell you they love you,’ added Viking as ‘Happy Birthday’ swung very discordantly into the Wedding March.

  ‘Your orchestra has come to take you home.’

  Abby burst into tears of joy.

  ‘But they’re not together,’ she wailed.

  ‘No, but you and I are, and that’s all that matters,’ said Viking.

  THE END

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also by Jilly Cooper

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  The Cast

  The Animals

  Appassionata: Overture

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Appassionata: First Movement

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen