by Jilly Cooper
‘Oh, Markie,’ suddenly Abby looked wildly excited, ‘d’you think Boris fancies me?’
It was the question he’d been dreading.
‘I’m sure.’
‘Oh, darling Markie,’ Abby hugged him, giving him the cruel benefit of her hot scented, nearly naked body. ‘You’re the little brother I never had.’
Hearing the post-van rattling over the dry stones up the lane, Marcus had an excuse to wriggle free before she felt the frantic hammering of his heart.
He was absurdly pleased to get a letter from the musical society in Lancashire.
Dear Mr Black,
Yours was the first concert our society has ever had. We all enjoyed it very much indeed. We would like to thank you, and take the opportunity of booking you again next year.
Boris had a letter from Astrid.
‘I haven’t ring her since Vendesday because of vork,’ said Boris mortified. ‘I vill ring her once I get to end of “Sanctus”, at least I can pay her now.’
Abby’s good mood evaporated when she read a postcard with a photograph of a donkey on the back which had arrived from Viking to Flora, saying how much he was looking forward to seeing her, and that he hoped L’Appassionata had recovered from her strop.
Conscious of a froideur despite the heat, Flora decided to make herself scarce. She was fed up with copying black dots. She wanted to buy a new dress and get her hair cut, and tried to persuade Marcus to go into Rutminster with her.
‘I ought to practise.’
‘And there’s still a mass of copying to do,’ protested Boris.
‘Can I borrow your car, Marcus?’ said Flora.
Left alone with Abby and Boris, Marcus felt increasingly claustrophobic as Abby, stretched out on the grass in her bikini and pretended to make notes on the huge score of Brahms’ Second Symphony.
Boris, flat stomached and lean hipped now he’d lost so much weight, his sallow skin turning a smooth dark brown, pretended to orchestrate the ‘Sanctus’.
He’s absolutely gorgeous, Abby gazed at Boris through splayed fingers. It was lovely that he was dedicating the Requiem to her. Imagine her biog: Not only was Abigail Rosen the Paganini and the Toscanini of her age, but also Boris Levitsky’s Immortal Beloved. Rodney’s caresses had made her aware of how desperately she needed a man.
‘Sheet, I ’ave run out of manuscript paper,’ Boris glanced down at the laboriously copying Marcus. ‘You got any more?’
‘This is my last page.’
‘And Flora’s taken the car,’ wailed Abby.
‘I wonder who’s got some?’
‘Certainly not the Celtic Mafia,’ said Abby with a sniff, then exchanging a languorous eye-meet with Boris, volunteered, ‘I’ll call Old Henry.’
Marcus was passionately relieved to escape. The bus-stop was only half a mile away if he took a short cut through the woods. Twenty yards down the track, he turned round to find Abby hovering at the gate. ‘Just wanted to check you’ve got your inhaler,’ she had the grace to blush. ‘Please take it slowly.’
Just to make sure I’ve really gone, thought Marcus bitterly.
I must ring Astrid, thought Boris, as he put down the orchestrated ‘Sanctus’. But, on his way to the house, he passed Abby, poring over Lionel’s impossibly difficult violin solo which Marcus had just copied out and left on the garden bench.
‘God, this is wonderful — if only I could play it.’
‘You vill,’ said Boris, ‘I used to be a teacher, I taught Marcus, I vill help you to play again.
‘You take the bow in this hand.’ Boris kissed her fingers. ‘You take the violin in this one.’ He picked up her left hand, examining the palm. ‘Such a strong fate line, so much passion.’ Slowly he ran his tongue along her heart line.
Abby shivered with excitement, not least because she’d got all the feeling back.
She and Boris were exactly the same height. For a second he gazed at her, then buried his lips in her scented neck below the left jawbone.
‘This ees where you put your violin,’ he whispered, ‘I weel make you bettair.’
As he kissed her lips, he was enchanted by the wild enthusiasm of her response.
Rain brought back the wild flowers, the butterflies and Viking O’Neill to Rutminster. He had enjoyed his time in Dublin. He had recorded the Strauss Horn Concertos, played chamber music, romped with his numerous nephews and nieces, gossiped to his mother until four in the morning, looked up old girlfriends and drinking pals. He had also acquired a second-hand BMW convertible into which he had transferred the Don Juan horn call.
But by the end of three and a half weeks he had had enough. He lusted after Flora, about whom he’d had a lovely erotic dream last night, but which had faded like a rainbow when he tried to retain it. And then there was Abby.
He had had a letter from Rodney:
Darling boy,
Beneath that golden exterior you have a heart of gold. Please be kinder to Abby, she is so isolated and sad. Genius should be pruned, but also sunned and fertilized. I suspect she analyses far too much and should let her instincts take over. If you, as leader of the pack, eased up on her a little, the boys and girls would follow suit. Dear me, I miss you all so much.
Viking wondered about being taken over by Abby’s instincts. He didn’t really fancy her. She was too overbearing, too self-centred, too troublesome, but she irritated him all the time like a sharp piece of apple lodged in his teeth.
The downpour stopped as he approached Rutminster. Pausing in a lane of traffic, he noticed harebells glinting like amethysts in the verge, and meadow browns and common blues dancing ecstatically over the drenched fields. A red admiral had also upended itself on the top of a thistle, avoiding the prickles, as it sucked the sweetness from the mauve flower. With Abby, you’d have to accept prickles and all.
Odd to have a traffic jam on this road, then he realized all the drivers were slowing down to gaze at a beautiful girl at the bus-stop. Her long blond hair and faded denim dress seemed to echo the gold wheat fields and the blue of the sky. With her were a boy and a girl, both very dark haired, pale and sloe-eyed. Must be the child-bride of some rich Arab, thought Viking dismissively.
Pulling up, he smiled and offered her a lift.
The girl brightened. Viking was very brown, his lion’s mane bleached. In the last three weeks, he’d got a little more sleep than usual. Such an attractive man, with his arm round such an adorable dog, surely couldn’t be an abducter.
‘You know,’ she consulted a letter, ‘the vay to Voodbine Cottage?’
‘I go right past the door, hop in. Over you go, Nugent.’
Leaping out, Viking gathered up a pile of scores, paperbacks, CDs and a big bag of duty free and dumped them in the boot, as the big black dog jumped obediently into the back seat.
‘He loves kids,’ he added, as he opened the back door for the two pale dubious-looking children, and ushered the heavenly blonde into the passenger seat.
Then, raising two fingers at the furiously jealous crescendo of car horns behind him, he drove off with a retaliatory flourish from Don Juan.
‘My name’s Viking.’
‘Mine’s Astrid.’ They gazed at each other in delight.
‘Who are you going to see?’
‘Boris Levitsky.’
‘At Woodbine Cottage?’
Viking was horrified at the idea of Boris hanging round Flora and Abby, exuding Russian machismo.
‘He finish Requiem,’ said Astrid, in her lilting singsong voice. ‘He have crisis. Someone called George wanted Boris to pay money back.’
Viking’s opinion of George Hungerford rocketed.
‘Boris dedicate Requiem to me,’ went on Astrid happily. ‘He say eet almost over. We stay weeth his in-laws, horrible people.’ Astrid lowered her voice. ‘Marmite sandwich for supper, salad viz no dressing, feenish up every bit, only children’s television, bed by eight, so we decided to surprise Boris.’
The two children soon cheered up
when Viking stopped and bought them ice-lollies.
Traveller’s joy falling in creamy drifts stroked the top of the car, the rain had polished the dusty trees, Viking breathed in a smell of wet earth and moulding leaves as he splashed through the puddles up the rough track.
‘Are we nearly there?’ asked Astrid, as Nugent began to sniff excitedly.
‘Nearly,’ said Viking, driving as carefully as possible over the stones to enable Astrid to apply pale pink lipstick to her delicious mouth.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he added, ‘wasted on that Russian.’
‘I miss heem so much. Oh what a pretty leetle ‘ouse,’ exclaimed Astrid as the car drew to a halt.
Getting out, Viking put her hand on Nugent’s collar.
‘Just hang onto my dog till I see who’s in. He’s not safe with cats.’
Sauntering up the lichened path, Viking found the pale green front door locked.
‘I’ll check round the back.’
In the garden, he found Abby and Boris asleep, lying naked in each other’s arms. Wonder at Abby’s amazing body, rage at what she’d clearly been doing with it, gave way to consternation that Boris’s children mustn’t catch him like this.
Alas, Marcus’s car had conked out on the way home and Flora, meeting a returning Marcus and the cats, had walked back through the woods with them. As they came through the back gate, Mr Nugent had ducked out of his collar and joined his master. Suddenly seeing the two kittens, he hurtled across the lawn, in a frenzy of barking sending both cats scuttling up the horse-chestnut tree.
Rudely awoken, Abby and Boris groped for their clothes. Boris hadn’t quite pulled up Marcus’s boxer shorts when Astrid appeared round the corner, but a huge smile spread across his face.
‘Astrid, oh my Astrid,’ he cried running, slipping. across the lawn, with arms outstretched. ‘You have come to me, ’Ow I have meesed you.’
‘You ’avent meesed me at all,’ screamed Astrid, sizing up the situation. ‘You peeg, you absolute peeg.’ And she slapped Boris very hard across his face.
‘My darling, vy you do that?’ Boris clutched his cheek. ‘I finish my requiem. Abby and I just embrace for celebration.’ Then, turning most unflatteringly to Abby, said, ‘Tell Astrid it was nuzzing.’
‘Seems to have been a good deal of nuzzling,’ observed Flora. ‘Oh do shut up, Nugent.’
‘You peeg,’ repeated Astrid. ‘And I don’t want requiem dedicate to me.’ Bursting into tears she ran back to the car.
‘I do see her point,’ said Viking coolly. ‘I was just returning your kids, Boris, here they are.’ As Boris was safely covered now, he drew the two children round onto the lawn. ‘And as Astrid hasn’t had a day off for a month, I thought I’d take her on a jaunt.’
‘No,’ roared Boris.
But Viking was too quick for him, whistling to a reluctant Nugent while sprinting back to the car, he jumped in beside a still-sobbing Astrid, and reversed down the lane to the victorious accompaniment of Don Juan’s horn call.
Boris was demented.
‘Run after my Astrid, tell her it was a moment of euphoria,’ he beseeched Abby. ‘I love her, and more important I cannot afford to lose a wonderful nanny for keeds.’
‘Don’t be such a shit, Boris,’ said Marcus, putting an arm round Abby’s heaving shoulders.
‘Everyone ees against me,’ said Boris and stormed off to The Bordello.
Abby was livid. What was the point of being the Immortal Beloved if you had to share the honour with a Swedish au pair, and for someone, who delayed for ever when producing music, Boris had proved disappointingly precipitous when it came to making love.
Twenty minutes later, Boris was back, drenched again. Finding The Bordello locked, he had hammered on the door until Astrid had poured a bucket of water over him. He had then hovered in the bushes until Viking emerged to check he had gone and knocked out one of Viking’s front teeth.
‘I hope he suffer.’
‘He won’t, it’s always being knocked out, it’s only crowned,’ said Flora.
Boris proceeded to tear up the horn solo of ‘Rachel’s Lament’.
‘Bloody hell, I spent all yesterday copying that out,’ grumbled Flora, shuddering at the increase in maggots as she retrieved the page from the bin.
Nor was she very pleased herself. Boris had promised to dedicate the Requiem to her, and she’d spent far too much on a pair of new Black-Watch-tartan dungarees for Viking’s return, and now he’d shoved off with Astrid. The astrologers had been absolutely right that Jupiter, bringer of jollity, was about to be rammed by a comet.
Boris was now looking helplessly at his children, who were trying to coax down Scriabin and Sibelius.
‘Vot would you like for supper?’
‘Oh, Marcus’ll find them something,’ said Abby.
‘Marcus will not,’ said Flora, catching sight of his stricken face. ‘Marcus and I are off to see Four Veddings and a Funeral.’
Appassionata. THIRD MOVEMENT
THIRTY-FIVE
The first rehearsal of Rachel’s Requiem took place on the afternoon of the RSO’s first day back at work. Expecting to be bored rigid, the musicians trailed in weighed down by sweets, knitting, magazines, even computer games.
‘Ay’d take a good book,’ advised Miss Parrott.
‘I’d take a library,’ said Viking, who had had his front tooth put back, but was secretly incensed that ‘Rachel’s Lament’ had been given to the cor anglais. Carmine was livid that his wife was going to play it and would be around spying on him his first week back.
Simon Painshaw and Peter Plumpton were also livid they hadn’t been given the big solo as promised. Eldred had also been promised it, but was too upset to mind. His wife hadn’t come back, and after four and a half weeks’ respite, he would have to endure Hilary’s scorn and sighs once more.
Francis the Good Loser was also fed up. He had mislaid the cup of coffee and the doughnut he’d bought at the buffet, which in fact had been nicked by the First Bassoon, known as ‘Jerry the Joker’, who was now sitting innocently at his desk.
‘Heard the latest viola joke?’ he said to Steve, the union rep, who was his Second Bassoon. ‘If you’re driving down a hill and your brakes fail, who d’you hit, a viola player or a conductor?’
‘Dunno,’ said Steve.
‘The conductor,’ said Jerry. ‘Business before pleasure.’
‘Too right,’ said Steve, as Abby marched in looking tight-lipped and embattled.
Immediately, like a great aviary, the RSO launched into a frenzy of tuning up. Determined to stand no nonsense, Abby asked the eternally good-natured Charlton Handsome to move the horns upstage.
‘Excuse me, Maestro,’ drawled Viking, ‘is that a good idea?’
‘Why not?’ said Abby irritably.
‘If we’re too far away, you won’t be able to follow us.’
Abby’s explosion was averted by the librarian running in. ‘Here are the parts for the cor anglais and the piccolo, we’ll have the rest of the woodwind parts by the break.’
‘Why bother?’ said Hilary nastily.
Shooting her a withering glance, Abby opened the score. She was relieved that Boris was still too angry with Viking to show up. She could have done with his support, but composers tended to shoot themselves at first rehearsals, because their music, sight-read, sounded so terrible.
‘Quiet please.’ Abby looked round at the orchestra, spread out like enemy snipers in the forest. Even Miss Parrott’s harp reared up like a chess-castle waiting to whizz across the board and take her.
Abby took a deep breath.
‘We are about to play the most beautiful piece of music probably of the entire twentieth century. It is a requiem written in memory of Boris’s young, incredibly talented wife, who committed suicide.’
‘Lucky Boris — what was his secret?’ sneered Carmine Jones.
Cathie Jones, who’d gone white as she digested the importance and extreme complexity of her
solo, now flushed scarlet with mortification.
‘You basstard, Carmine.’ Blue was on his feet — only Cathie’s anguished, terrified glance stopped him hitting Carmine across the stage.
‘Whose incredibly talented wife committed suicide in 1991,’ repeated Abby firmly.
‘You must have identified with that,’ simpered Hilary.
‘Don’t be a bitch,’ called out Flora. ‘This is a masterpiece.’
Rank-and-file viola players were not supposed to express opinions. Flora was getting much too uppity. Hilary scowled at her.
‘Tell us about your famous mother, Flawless,’ said Dixie, putting down his tax returns.
‘Why isn’t Boris conducting this?’ grumbled Juno.
‘We used to have Schnapps-breaks every half-hour,’ said Nellie wistfully. ‘D’you remember the time he gave us miniatures of brandy before we recorded Mahler One, and we got through it in an hour with no retakes.’
‘I loved Boris,’ sighed Juno.
‘You’ll have to put up with me,’ snapped Abby. ‘Give us an A, Simon, let’s get started.’
After a month off, the orchestra were very rusty, fingers and lips couldn’t be trusted. Effing and blinding under their breath they began ploughing through the ‘Dies Irae’. Jerry the Joker played ‘God Save the Queen’ on his bassoon to see if Abby noticed.
‘I heard you, get out, Jerry,’ she shouted. ‘As a section leader you’re supposed to set a good example.’
‘What a frightful piece of music this is,’ sighed Dixie.
‘Cheer up,’ said Jerry, going out grinning and licking doughnut sugar off his fingers. ‘You’ll only have to play it once.’
‘We’re recording it,’ Abby, who was battling for at least four performances as well, yelled after him. ‘But not till the middle of October to give you the time to digest the complexities.’
‘And puke them all up again,’ called out Randy.
Abby tried another tack.
‘You’ve got to familiarize yourself with it to love it,’ she pleaded. ‘In 1915, when they first rehearsed Prokofiev’s Scythian Suite-’