Appassionata rc-5

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Hugo says you did awfully well today,’ he told Abby. ‘It’s lovely to see the orchestra happy. They do tend to grumble a lot. But I believe they have a tough life for very little money. I try to think of that when they barge in here and behave horribly.

  ‘I envy you winning their confidence so quickly,’ he added wistfully. ‘When I go into the band room, they part like the Red Sea.’

  ‘I guess they think a lot of you.’ Abby tried to sound convincing.

  ‘They’d forgive me if I were able to give them rises,’ sighed Mark. ‘The malaise is general. Orchestras everywhere are finding that with audiences plummetting, reduced Arts Council and local government funding and sponsorship being harder to come by, there’s less and less money to spare.’

  Abby was too wrapped up in the next week, digesting the arcane repertoire and imparting her findings to the orchestra, to notice how bad things were financially. Not only had Rodney overspent dreadfully, but the obscure music chosen by Mark to appease the Arts Council had not pulled in the crowds. Recordings, television and film work had dried up. There had been no more proms since Rodney fell asleep on the rostrum during Daphnis and Chloé and, for the first time in years, the orchestra had not been invited to take part in the next county’s prestigious Cotchester Festival.

  On her second Tuesday morning Abby got an ecstatic letter from Rodney. The Swiss were going to name a train after him.

  ‘Just imagine the darling boy chugging through the mountains, we can all go for rides on him and gaze at the wild flowers.’

  Running into the General Office in excitement to break the news, Abby found Miles Brian-Knowles tearing out his thatched hair. Herman, the kindly German guest conductor, known as ‘Vun Two Vun Two’, who had been standing in for Rodney for a month, was that evening doing the hellishly difficult Missa Solemnis.

  The stage had already been extended, losing three hundred stall seats to accommodate the soloists and the Valkyrie might of the Rutminster Choir. And now Herman was sitting sobbing in Miles’s chair saying: ‘I am not a Nazi. If the orchestra won’t apologize I’m going home.’

  Meanwhile, in the auditorium, the orchestra were playing silly buggers and singing: ‘He was Her-man, and he did us wrong.’

  ‘Herman’s paid five grand a concert to stand up and be electrifying,’ grumbled Viking to Blue. ‘He’s got no right to bore us and be incompetent.’

  Hugo, who had another very difficult solo in the Missa, had retired to the leader’s room to practise in case Herman was coaxed back.

  Stupid Kraut, thought Abby hubristically, hasn’t a clue how to handle musicians.

  Even more dramatically, at lunch-time Mark Carling resigned. The Arts Council, after all he had done to please them, had slashed the RSO grant by 4 per cent, so now with inflation running at 3 per cent, they would be plunged into debt again. Having no money meant Mark couldn’t plan ahead and would have to scrap big productions like Fidelio scheduled for later in the year. The final straw was an enraged letter about the music put on to please the Arts Council.

  Dear Sir,

  If you continue to programme this drivel, I shall cancel my subscription.

  Disasters come in threes. About to fly from Lucerne to take over the baton later in the week from poor harassed Herman, Rodney suffered a massive heart attack. The orchestra were shattered. Forgetting how Rodney had led them into debt and borrowed money off them, they only remembered his wonderful anecdotes about the famous, his kindnesses, rigging up a big screen so they could watch Wimbledon and the way he swept them all out to dinner when he was in funds.

  ‘Rodney avoided tax, but not attacks,’ said Viking, who’d gone very white. ‘He’ll be OK,’ he added to a distraught Abby.

  ‘I must go to him.’

  ‘I’ll drive you to the airport.’

  ‘Your car wouldn’t make the outskirts of Rutminster,’ said Hugo scornfully. ‘I’ll take her.’

  ‘Well, take him my St Christopher for luck,’ said Viking.

  As the RSO were now facing a mega-crisis of cash and morale, an emergency board meeting was called. With Mark Carling gone, the executive directors included Miles Brian-Knowles, who acted ever-so humble at board meetings because he wanted Mark Carling’s job, and Harry Hopcraft, the financial director, who was within a year of retirement, and against any innovation particularly if it involved spending money.

  Among the non-executive directors were the chairman, Lord Leatherhead, who was tone deaf but who had been fond of an aunt who played the tuba; Lady Chisleden, a stuffy old trout, whose reputation for virtue had been somewhat tarnished a few years ago, by rumours that she had been seen pleasuring Rannaldini’s ancient gardener during the famous Valhalla orgy; Peggy Parker, who referred to the orchestra as ‘we’ and who never missed a concert; various bankers, brewers and building society supremos (the three Bs which keep orchestras going), and Canon Airlie, a Handel freak, known as the unloose canon because like Mrs Parker, he was always inveighing against hooliganism.

  Finally, there were two directors from the orchestra: Simon Painshaw, Principal Oboe, who was a walking Grove’s Dictionary if given the chance, and the Principal Viola, Dennis Strickland, known as ‘El Creepo’, because he was always brushing against breasts.

  These directorships, which lasted two years were supposed to be chosen from the best people to fight the orchestra’s corner. But such was the distrust of management, that Simon and El Creepo had been the only people last time to put their names forward.

  The boardroom itself looked across to the russet spires and roofs of Rutminster. The ruby blur on the horse-chestnuts in the park was turning buff as the green leaves pushed out of each sticky bud. The spring sunshine, however, cruelly highlighted the faded dusty brown velvet curtains with the hems coming down, the worn blue carpet, the peeling blue-and-fawn wallpaper, the Paisley design concealing the damp patches. On the walls were also an oil of Herbert Parker, who looked like Bach after a short back and sides, an aerial view of Rutminster showing the concert hall, some framed programmes from the early days, and a photograph of a drooling Peggy Parker shaking hands with the Duchess of Kent. The room however, was dominated by Rodney’s portrait over the fireplace. Ruskin Spear had brilliantly captured his Falstaffian merriment. Any moment, you expected him to wink.

  Canon Airlie opened the meeting with prayers for his recovery. Miles really shut his eyes and said the loudest Amen.

  Miss Priddock, who was taking the minutes, burst into tears and was comforted by a swig of brandy from one of the brewers’ miniatures. Lord Leatherhead then suggested they offer Abby Rodney’s job.

  ‘She’s got a high profile, she’ll pull in the sponsors and the advertisers. She’ll attract fat record contracts — we were all impressed by the way Megagram chipped in — and she’s played with many of the top conductors, so she’ll pull in the big names.’

  ‘She’s also a fine musician,’ chipped in Lady Chisleden. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the ill, but Rodney hated learning new pieces. Abby will bring in a younger audience. Ours is getting a bit hoary.’

  ‘And the orchestra like her,’ said Harry Hopcraft, the financial director. ‘I haven’t heard such laughter coming from rehearsals since Rodney fell off the rostrum. And she’s cheap.’

  Howie Denston (who’d been on the telephone before Rodney reached intensive care) had offered most reasonable terms.

  ‘Look how well Dame Edith has done at Cotchester,’ said Peggy Parker. ‘The English have always thrived with a woman at the helm. Think of Boudicca, Elizabeth I, Victoria-’ She waited expectantly.

  Miles didn’t fail her.

  ‘And of yourself, heading your great Parker and Parker empire.’

  Peggy Parker bowed graciously.

  ‘With respect though, Mr Chairman,’ continued Miles in his fluting voice, ‘I feel Abigail Rosen is too young and inexperienced.’

  El Creepo, who liked Abby because she was beautiful and had praised his solos, said that Simon Rattle
and Toscanini had taken over when they were even younger.

  ‘Auditioning’ll take months,’ urged Harry Hopcraft. ‘And think of the air fares and the hotel bills.’

  ‘We ought to consider the alternatives,’ persisted Miles. ‘What about Olaf?’

  ‘Talks far too much in rehearsals and bores the orchestra,’ said Simon, whose solos Abby had also praised.

  ‘What about Vladimir?’

  ‘Liable to turn nasty,’ said El Creepo. ‘Uses us to familiarize himself with obscure repertoire, then rushes off to record it with other orchestras.’

  ‘What about Hans?’ asked Lady Chisleden. ‘Such a charmer.’

  ‘Said he wanted to live in the area and get to know us then pushed off on the first plane back to Switzerland after every concert, and he’s always drunk on the rostrum.’

  ‘Sheraton’s miserable in Germany,’ added Simon, ‘but it would take six months to extricate him. Rannaldini’s restless in New York, but we could never afford him and Boris Levitsky.’

  ‘Is dishy,’ said Lady Chisleden eagerly.

  ‘But totally unreliable,’ snapped Peggy Parker.

  ‘None of them is as famous as Abby,’ said Lord Leatherhead. ‘We must have someone who can haul audiences away from the television.’

  Miles cracked his knuckles.

  ‘What about Ambrose?’ he suggested in desperation.

  Everyone shuddered. Ambrose, the principal guest conductor, known as the ‘Fat Controller’, was a bitchy old queen who’d been guesting for three months in San Fransisco. (‘Coals to Newcastle,’ said Viking.)

  ‘Ambrose is bound to block Abby’s appointment when he returns,’ said Lady Chisleden. ‘He loathes women.’

  ‘All the more important to engage Abigail at once,’ insisted Peggy Parker, envisaging a whole series of concerts in which Abby dazzled in a different Parker and Parker evening ge-own, and blissfully unaware of Abby’s comments about her son’s composition.

  ‘Don’t you think we should consult the orchestra?’ said Simon Painshaw, examining his red dreadlocks for split ends.

  ‘Heavens no,’ said Harry Hopcroft. ‘They’ll disagree on principle.’

  Miles’s was the only dissenting voice: he was even more fed up when, over Earl Grey and digestive biscuits, the board showed no inclination to appoint him as managing director.

  Everyone agreed with Lord Leatherhead that they needed a new broom with a City background, who could capitalize on Abby’s marketability.

  ‘He must be musical,’ urged Lady Chisleden.

  ‘And able to give the orchestra spiritual guidance,’ urged Canon Airlie.

  Lord Leatherhead said he and one of the bankers had someone in mind.

  ‘Will you approach him then, my Lord,’ said Peggy Parker.

  And I’ll never suck up to you again, you old monster, thought Miles furiously.

  Glancing out of the window, Lord Leatherhead saw Abby, back from Lucerne, leaping out of a taxi, running up the path, as lithe and graceful as the white cherry blossom tossing in the April breeze. As a treat, the board decided to call her in and offer her the job.

  ‘I’d like to hear how Rodney is, too,’ said Lady Chisleden.

  There was a rip in Abby’s jeans, a smudge on her forehead and her dark curls stood on end.

  She had had a frightening and exhausting three days and had only come back because she had exchanged a few comforting words with Rodney, who had urged her to carry on with Squeakygate.

  ‘He was so darling,’ she said, as Miss Priddock bustled in with a fresh pot of tea. ‘He sent you all his love, particularly you, Miss Priddock, and said please don’t worry. He said he’d get much better much quicker if they added some Krug to his drip, and at one moment, he looked round at all the tubes,’ Abby gave a sob, ‘and then said, “Darling girl, I’m not frightened of death, it’s just getting there that worries me”’

  When they offered her the job, she burst into tears for a second time, and hugged everyone including El Creepo. Her delight and her impassioned promise that she would work her heart out for Rodney’s orchestra, until he could take over again, touched them all.

  ‘The problem with modern orchestras,’ she went on, ‘is that conductors are so busy jetting round the world, they never have time to learn the repertoire or get to know the orchestra. I want to live in Rutminster and become part of the community. Thank you all for giving me this wonderful chance. Can I sign the contract as soon as possible, in case you change your minds?’

  ‘Who is going to tell the orchestra?’ asked El Creepo nervously, after she’d gone.

  ‘Oh, tell them after the contract’s signed,’ said Harry Hopcroft. ‘We don’t want them putting their oar in.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Having been nearly flattened by musicians charging out of rehearsal to the Shaven Crown, Abby floated off to ring Howie, who gave her a bollocking for over-enthusiasm.

  ‘If you hadn’t rolled over we could have screwed another grand a concert out of them. I’m only going to draw up the contract for a year, right? To see how you get on.’

  Privately he was convinced the RSO would have folded long before then.

  As everyone had gone home, Abby stole into the auditorium which seemed filled with the ghosts of former players. Herbert Parker’s haberdasher’s gold crest of interwoven thimbles, needles and cotton reels glittered on the faded dark green velvet curtains. Even the gold cherubs decorating the fronts of the boxes seemed to be tooting their long trumpets to welcome her.

  ‘My band, my own band,’ sang Abby, waltzing down the aisle in ecstasy. ‘I’m gonna make you the greatest band in the world.’

  Leaping onto the rostrum, she was singing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony: ‘De, de, de, dum, de, de, de, dum, de, de, de, dum’, at the top of her voice and conducting with wild flourishes, when someone started playing the First Violin part. Whipping round, Abby nearly died of embarrassment to find Hugo who’d been working late.

  ‘How was Rodney? Better it would seem.’

  ‘I figure he’ll pull through,’ Abby leapt down from the rostrum, ‘he’s determined to ride in his new train. Thank you so much for driving me to the airport.’

  Something’s happened to her, she’s glowing, thought Hugo in disquiet, and it’s nothing to do with Rodney. God, he hoped Viking hadn’t got there first.

  ‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream. You must be in love.’

  ‘Oh I am,’ Abby whirled round the platform.

  Bugger Viking, thought Hugo.

  ‘In love with a whole big orchestra, right? Promise, promise you won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘You are looking,’ Abby paused in mid-whirl, nearly falling over, ‘at your new boss.’

  ‘What!’ No cymbal crash could have been louder.

  ‘The Board’s just appointed me musical director.’

  Hugo was enchanted, particularly because it had nothing to do with Viking, and suggested dinner at a discreet out-of-town restaurant, the Heavenly Host, in Paradise.

  The sunny day had turned into a beautiful evening with the first green leaves spotlit by the falling sun against a navy-blue sky. Lambs were racing in the fields, cricketers in sweaters were practising in the nets. Hugo pointed out various pretty thatched cottages belonging to members of the orchestra, including his own, which was smothered in clematis montana with a front garden filled with grape hyacinths and primroses.

  ‘This is where you should get a place. I come home in the evening, see cows in the fields, and stop thinking “Bloody orchestra”. We can have a night-cap there later if you’re not too tired.’

  ‘I’d just love to,’ said Abby.

  Hugo was such a gentleman, he’d never try anything unless she wanted it. But, looking at his beautifully manicured hands on the wheel and his powerful thighs in those lemon cords, she thought perhaps she did.

  Hugo would be the perfect man, kind, sophisticated, utterly honourable, with whom to ce
lebrate the end of three years’ celibacy.

  ‘That’s Rannaldini’s house,’ Hugo halted, putting a caressing hand round her left shoulder and pulling her across the same powerful thighs, so that out of the side-window, she could see Valhalla, towering and tasselled with emerald-green larches.

  ‘How can he leave such a fantastic place to work in New York?’

  As they arrived at the restaurant, Hugo pointed out a pilgrimage of frogs laboriously crawling across Paradise High Street on their way to the River Fleet.

  ‘Just like the RSO, no matter who they’re bonking, how much they’ve drunk, whatever mischief they’re up to, oversleeping or missing the bus, some inner clock tells them the time and somehow they always make the gig.’

  ‘That’s so dear,’ said Abby in a choked voice. ‘And this is so gorgeous,’ she cried as they went into the restaurant.

  Angels reclining on clouds and twanging gold harps had been painted on the walls. Pretty waitresses, in flowing white robes and haloes, handed out scrolls instead of menus. Vases of lilies stood on each celestial blue table.

  Being mid-week, the restaurant was pretty empty. Hugo felt free to talk and, over a celebratory bottle of Moët, he told Abby about the Berlin Wall existing between the musicians and the management, who were known as the ‘Fourth Reich’.

  ‘The management think the orchestra are a bunch of capricious, male-dominated, backbiting, money-grubbing hooligans. The orchestra think management is inefficient, lazy, uppity, tone deaf, overpaid and spends its time drinking coffee and taking three-hour lunches.’

  The candlelight gave a warmth to Hugo’s sallow skin, his dark eyes gleamed with laughter.

  ‘The only time the orchestra venture onto the top floor is to ask for days off or more money, or make private telephone calls. In fact the orchestra’s attitude to management,’ Hugo picked up the menu, ‘was summed up this afternoon by the chairman of the Players’ Committee telling the Press about Mark Carling’s resignation.’