by Jilly Cooper
‘Last night’s concert was better,’ he opened the door for her. ‘But the symphony was still too long. Miss Priddock’s been handling complaints from people who missed their last trains and buses all morning.’
In a rage Abby went back to the conductor’s room and leafing through the Eroica pencilled in a huge ‘No’ beside every repeat sign, which meant a lot of work for the library, who had to change all the parts before the evening.
During the Brahms Second Piano Concerto in the first half, Abby noticed Viking smiling at a pretty redhead in the audience, and pointing to his watch to suggest a rendez-vous after the concert. Abby then proceeded to knock a quarter of an hour off the Eroica giving heart attacks to several ancient bass players, and everyone got their last trains.
For an orchestra whose hobby was grumbling, the RSO were delighted with George Hungerford. Socially maladroit, he was deficient in small talk, but he asked the right questions and listened carefully to all the answers, aware that a grievance aired is usually a grievance forgotten. He also recognized individual players in the building and then put up their photographs in the foyer, on the premise that the public ought to recognize them, too, and he invited them back to drinks at his splendid new house.
George would generate work, the RSO decided, and get them out of trouble. He certainly generated too much work for Miss Priddock and very tactfully provided her with an EA (an executive assistant, so Miss Priddock felt upgraded, too). The EA turned out to be a ravishing bimbo called Jessica who’d just returned with an all-over tan from the Seychelles. Nothing could more successfully have demolished the Berlin Wall between musicians and management, as male players, who hadn’t visited the top floor in years, plied Jessica with flowers, chocolates and invitations like love-sick schoolboys. El Creepo even got stuck up the tallest horse-chestnut tree in the park the day it was rumoured Jessica was sunbathing topless on the flat roof.
‘Isn’t George a ball of fire?’ exclaimed a besotted Miss Priddock, as she handed Abby her mail.
‘Fire’s the operative word,’ said Abby gloomily. ‘He’ll have me out of here the second my contract ends.’
Desperately tired and unhappy, she was grateful to have three weeks’ break at the end of June, while Ambrose, the Fat Controller, who was back from San Francisco, took over as guest conductor. But she dreaded the caballing when he, Miles and Lionel got together.
THIRTY
Abby found it impossible to recharge her batteries while staying at the Old Bell. She was too conscious of the RSO festering at the other end of town. Too proud to call Howie and say she wanted out, she decided to think positively and look at the cottage by the lake of which Viking had spoken. Longing to capture the fun and friendship of her days at the Academy, she telephoned Flora, who was uncharacteristically listless. Wiped out by Helen’s marriage to Rannaldini, she had found herself increasingly marking time and unable to concentrate at college.
‘And I’ve got another year to go.’
‘There’s a viola vacancy at the RSO,’ said Abby. ‘Why don’t you audition for it? Don’t say you know me, right? Then you could come and share a cottage with me down here.’
‘God, I’d like that, I’m fed up with London, particularly in this heat.’
‘How’s Marcus?’ asked Abby carefully, reluctant to confess how much she missed him.
‘I hardly see him, he’s so busy writing letters, taking in pupils and fending off their frightful mothers. He hasn’t got any time to practise, let alone come out in the evenings.’
‘Mothers are far too old for Marcus, goddamn cradle-snatchers.’ Abby was predictably outraged. ‘He’d find lots of teaching work down here, he could start with any soloist booked by the RSO. Perhaps he’d like to share this cottage as well.’
There was a long pause.
‘He might,’ said Flora. ‘I’m sorry, Abby, but you were such a bitch to him.’
‘I know, I was so uptight that night, I don’t know what got into me. I really miss him.’
‘Well, you’d better ring him then.’
‘Why don’t you get him to drive you down to the audition, then we can go and see the cottage afterwards.’
‘They weren’t at all enthusiastic at college,’ grumbled Flora, as Marcus turned off the M4. ‘Just because I’m missing a day’s rehearsal for the end-of-term concert. You’d have thought my career was more important.’
‘They probably can’t forgive you for not becoming a singer.’
‘That’s what they tell me every day,’ sighed Flora. ‘What d’you think about sharing a cottage with Abby?’
‘I don’t know. It would be nice to have somewhere I could practise. I started playing Rachmaninov’s Second Sonata at eleven o’clock last night and people on both sides started banging on the walls, but I’m not sure I can cope with Abby’s ego.’
In his shirt pocket was a letter which he already knew by heart.
Darling Markie,
Please forgive me, I’m sorry I chewed you out.
I miss you so much — both as a friend and as an advisor. We used to have such fun discussing repertoire…
Fun for her thought Marcus wryly, remembering the hysterics, the endless demands and the interrupted nights.
Along the Gloucestershire lanes, he noticed the trees were losing the tender green of early summer. The hedgerows were festooned with wilting dog-roses. Buttercups and dog daisies shrivelled amidst the newly mown hay.
‘Heaven after London,’ sighed Flora. ‘Maybe we could cope with Abby’s ego if there were two of us. You could do the night shift.’
‘I practise at night. Jesus, it’s hot.’
Marcus looked terribly white and had lost a lot of weight.
‘Let’s get an ice-cream and a bottle of wine,’ suggested Flora. Then, looking down at her sawn off T-shirt, frayed Bermudas and dusty bare feet, wondered, ‘Do you think I look smart enough for an audition?’
‘Frankly, no. We’ve got time to nip into Bath and buy you something.’
‘Do I really want this job if I’ve got to tart up?’
‘Yes, you need some fun.’ Marcus took his hand off the wheel and stroked her cheek.
‘How’s your mother?’ asked Flora.
‘OK.’
Flora’s second question was more difficult.
‘How’s Rannaldini getting on with Tabitha?’
‘She’s in America for a year working in some racing yard.’
Marcus didn’t tell Flora, Helen had caught Rannaldini leering at Tabitha undressing through a two-way mirror.
‘I’ve got a new viola joke,’ he said to distract her. ‘How many viola players does it take to wallpaper a room?’
‘How many?’
‘Three — if you slice them thinly.’
Candidates at auditions are judged 70 per cent on their playing, 30 per cent on their ability to fit into the relevant section. The right attitude was needed, a core of hardness to cope with the cut and thrust of orchestral life. You couldn’t be too sweet or likely to cry if you were shouted at. Neither shrinking violets nor violists were encouraged.
Auditions could be very acrimonious. The leader of the orchestra could favour one candidate, the section leader another, the musical director or a member of the board another. Steve Smithson opposed anyone from abroad on principle. But no-one felt remotely enthusiastic that morning about the colourless bunch struggling through solos from Telemann’s Viola Concerto. They seemed to encapsulate all the jokes about the dumbness and dreariness of viola players.
The boardroom clock edged towards five past one.
‘Flora Seymour’s late,’ said Miles, looking at the last name on the list.
‘Give her another five minutes,’ said El Creepo, the section leader, who dreaded the prospect of re-advertising the job.
‘If she can’t turn up on time there’s no point in employing her,’ said Lionel, who was longing to share a bottle of chilled white wine in the long grass with Hilary.
Th
ey were the only people left except the accompanist who was thinking of the marmite-and-scrambled-egg sandwiches in tin foil at the bottom of her music case. It was a measure of the lacklustre nature of the morning’s performances that none of the other section leaders had bothered to stay for more than a few minutes.
‘OK, that’s it. Sorry, Flora,’ Miles ran a red Pentel through her name.
‘Flora’s the one who’s sorry,’ said a clear piercingly distinctive voice. ‘I can’t even pretend there was a pile-up on the motorway. We stopped in Bath to buy suitable clothes to be auditioned in, and I forgot the time. I’m really sorry.’
Miles was the first one to speak.
‘It’s absolutely no problem at all.’
‘Can I get you a glass of water or a cup of tea before you start?’ asked Lionel.
‘Would you like five minutes to freshen up and unwind?’ said El Creepo.
There was nearly a pile-up on Rutminster High Street as word got round and musicians on their way to the Shaven Crown did a speeded-up U-turn worthy of Benny Hill. Flora proceeded to play with such insouciance and joie de vivre in every note that the board room soon filled up.
Apart from Cherub, who crawled under people’s legs and chairs and ended up to his horror, practically sitting on the Fat Controller’s knee, latecomers had to lurk in the passage.
Flora’s new coffee-coloured silk shirt fell so charmingly over her wrists as she romped through the first movement of the Walton Concerto, and her short fawn suede skirt clung so enticingly to her dancing hips that afterwards even Simon Painshaw and the Fat Controller were making thumbs-up signs to El Creepo and Miles to offer her the job.
One of the reasons George Hungerford had taken over the RSO was because he loved music. He had been dismayed to find admin was taking up 95 per cent of his time. Leaving H.P. Hall at nearly midnight yesterday he had taken his soaring in-tray home but had fallen asleep at the kitchen table over a large whisky and a forkful of roll mops, and had had to bring the in-tray back untouched this morning.
Coming out of his office, he found the passage crowded with musicians peering in through the boardroom door with the rapt attention of a pack of hounds watching Basil Brush on television.
Then he recognized his favourite piece of music, Elgar’s In the South overture. In amazement, as he stood on his toes to see into the jam-packed board room, he realized a young girl with a shiny dark red bob was playing Elgar’s transcription of the piece with a fresh and exquisite sound. Her eyes were closed in anguish, her head shaking almost in bewilderment at the dark, sad, liltingly beautiful tune pouring out of her viola.
George felt all the uncontrollable knee-jerk reactions, the sudden catch of breath, hair rising on the back of the neck, tears swamping the eyes. Hastily turning to the window, through which was wafting the sweet lemony smell of lime flowers, so no-one could see how moved he was, he was overwhelmed by the emptiness of his life since Ruth had left him. He was brought back to earth by a most unusual round of applause.
‘That was absolutely beautiful,’ said El Creepo, blowing his nose.
‘Beautiful,’ agreed Lionel, after hastily checking Hilary wasn’t within earshot. ‘What are you working on at the Academy at the moment?’
‘Mostly singing Eve. We’re doing The Creation as an end-of-term concert.’
‘D’you have to strip off?’ shouted Dixie from the back.
Flora laughed. ‘I’m allowed to keep on my fig-leaf.’
‘Going to give us a demo?’ asked Dixie.
‘That’s quite enough,’ snapped Lionel. ‘Trust you to lower the tone, Dixie.’
‘I only wanted Flora to lower her fig-leaf.’
‘I would like to ask Miss Seymour,’ Miles glared at Dixie, ‘why she wants to play in an orchestra, and the RSO in particular.’
For once Flora seemed lost for words as her eyes ran over the men staring at her, then she beamed from ear to ear.
‘I guess I’d like some fun.’
Everyone beamed back.
Much too sexy for her own or anyone else’s good, thought George.
In the end, the RSO offered Flora six months’ trial.
‘In case either of us don’t like each other,’ said El Creepo, ‘which is most unlikely.’
‘I’m afraid we can only offer you thirteen thousand a year,’ said Miles apologetically.
‘You couldn’t make it thirteen and a half?’ asked Flora. ‘I’ll probably have to pay back my grant.’ Then, shaken out of her habitual cool, added, ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am.’
So were the men in the orchestra. Even the Celtic Mafia charged round in jubilation saying, ‘She’s got the job, she’s got the job.’
Abby was jubilant, too, because she’d set the thing up.
‘I’ve organized chilled French champagne, Scotch salmon, alligator pears and fresh berries,’ she told Marcus and Flora, ‘We’ll have a picnic by the lake and then we’ll go and look at the cottage.’
In the third week in June, Abby, Marcus and Flora moved into Woodbine Cottage which lurked like the palest red fox cub, peering out of its woodland undergrowth. It was situated two hundred and fifty yards from the lake, up a rough track, which would become a running stream in wet weather. They would have difficulty getting out if it snowed, but at least they wouldn’t be gawped at by locals or tourists wandering round the lake.
The cottage itself was early nineteenth century and quite enchanting. Pale pink roses arched over the rickety front gate, pink geraniums in pots leant out of every window and a stream hurtled under the mossy flagstones that led up to the pale green front door. Clematis, white roses and honeysuckle swarmed up the soft red walls. The front garden was crowded with pinks, snapdragons and tall crimson hollyhocks. Behind the cottage a lawn bounded by ancient apple trees sloped up into soaring woods which protected the cottage from north and east winds. Beyond the front gate, red and white cows grazed in a wild flower meadow rising gently to poplars on the horizon.
‘You won’t get much sun until midday,’ the owner, a sweet widow, told them apologetically.
‘Suits us,’ said Flora, ‘we’re not early risers.’
‘You will be now you’ve joined the RSO,’ said Abby firmly.
Inside, the cottage, to Abby’s delight, had adequate plumbing, a modern kitchen with a Cotswold stone floor and a big scrubbed table. The drawing-room had a huge mirror in which she could practise conducting, and plenty of shelves for scores and books. Upstairs were two largish bedrooms looking over the meadow, a bathroom and an attic bedroom under the eaves.
Marcus was worried the place was so isolated. With every move he had to find a doctor and locate the nearest casualty department. He would have to make doubly sure that he always had spare inhalers and a pre-packed syringe to inject himself.
But the real plus was that, under a spreading chestnut tree, in the top left-hand corner of the back garden, had been built a studio. This had a shower, a 100, a fridge in which he could put his pillows to kill the dust mites, plenty of room for a bed and the Steinway on which he had just managed to keep up the payments.
‘My late husband was a sculptor, who liked to work at night,’ the sweet widow told Marcus, ‘I like to think of another artist living here.’
With a studio, Marcus could also take in private pupils without bothering the others, and retreat to avoid the dust and fluff bound to be created by Abby’s and Flora’s sloppy housework and the two black-and-white kitten brothers, Sibelius and Scriabin, which Abby had rushed off and acquired from the nearest rescue kennels the moment they moved in.
‘Two for joy, they’re just like magpies,’ said Flora in ecstasy, as the kittens with thunderous purring buried their faces in a plate of boiled chicken.
‘Can you imagine poor Schubert moving twenty-four times. I’m exhausted after a day of it,’ added Flora.
There was still masses of sorting out, but she wandered off to the kitchen returning with a bottle of Moët and three glasses. Abby ra
ised a disapproving eyebrow. It was only three o’clock.
‘I’m not going to make a habit of it,’ said Flora airily, ‘but it is a special day.’
‘We are going to introduce a new regime,’ insisted Abby virtuously, ‘no pop music, no TV, we’ll go for long walks, read aloud and discuss music and ideas in the evening.’
‘No television, that’s a bit steep,’ cried Flora in alarm. ‘What about Men Behaving Badly, Blind Date, and Keeping Up Appearances?’
‘You’ll soon get used to it.’ Abby raised her glass. ‘To us.’
‘We better start making our own wine,’ muttered Flora. ‘Go and jump on a few elderberries, Marcus.’
‘And make our own amusements,’ said Marcus, and he and Flora sat down to bash out a four-handed version of Schubert’s Marche Militaire on the ancient upright in the drawing-room.
‘Abby’s clearly going to take rural life very seriously,’ giggled Flora. ‘She’s already bought galoshes, gloves, a rain hat and a Dryzabone for country walks.’
‘She can count me out,’ sighed Marcus, ‘I can’t do more than forty yards at the moment.’
Wandering out into the back garden, clutching a still purring Scriabin, the browning lawn scratching her bare feet like horsehair, Abby jumped as she heard the glorious horn call from Don Juan echoing through the woods. For a second she thought the others, bored of duets, had put on a record. But no-one could mistake that radiance and clarity. It was Viking practising for next week’s concert. There it was again, hardly muffled by the leaves.
The Celtic Mafia’s Bordello, rented so they could play music and hell-raise as loudly as they liked, lay on the other side of the lake. Perhaps they could start giving Woodbine Cottage dinner parties round the big kitchen table. Was Viking putting out signals playing Don Juan on her first day? Perhaps he didn’t know she had moved in. She must get some change of address cards printed, she thought with a shiver of excitement.
That night she fell asleep instantly for the first time in months, soothed by the sound of the stream under her window rushing down to join the lake.