Appassionata rc-5

by Jilly Cooper

  Her seducers had principally drawn a blank in the past few days because after the first night Abby’d been staying in different hotels.

  Tonight, however, they’d all be together in the Picasso Grand in Madrid. So many people were trying to bed her, in fact, that Abby-baiting had been suspended as the chief orchestra pastime and mobbing-up Miles had taken its place.

  In Corunna, a pedal had fallen off the piano and Miles had managed to put it back.

  ‘First time you’ve lain between a pair of legs and been able to find the right aperture,’ shouted Dixie to cheers all round.

  On the express to Madrid, which looked like a long grey electric shaver, Cherub charmed the guard into letting him use the Tannoy.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he announced in his shrill voice, ‘that this train has run out of bog paper. Anyone in need — particularly anyone who had Squid Corunna in the Sir John Moore Wine Bar last night — is advised to apply to Miles Brian-Knowles for RSO contracts which are probably worth considerably less.’

  Roused by guffaws, Miles stopped telling Hilly how much he was looking forward to showing her Guernica and the other Picassos in the Prado.

  Julian, halfway through War and Peace, was sitting next to Mary who had nearly finished her sampler.

  ‘Dear Little One,’ read Flora over Mary’s shoulder, ‘I wish to give you two things: roots and wings. Oh, that’s lovely.’

  Flora’s eyes filled with tears. Roots and wings should be the basis for any happy relationship. She suddenly wondered how George was getting on in England and hoped Trevor was OK.

  Her reverie was interrupted by Cherub’s shrill voice over the Tannoy again, interspersed with fits of giggles.

  ‘This is a special message for all members of the RSO. Tonight’s rehearsal has been cancelled.’

  An enraged Miles then had to hurtle up and down the train, denying this and thrusting aside garlic-reeking peasants, sleek businessmen, and Randy and Candy, once again straightening their clothes as they emerged from the loo.

  As the train stopped at a station Miles saw Cherub belting down the platform in the other direction.

  ‘This is your last life, Wilson,’ he yelled out of the window.

  ‘Look at Thrilary, mouth vanished altogether,’ murmured Viking to Blue. ‘She is being screwed by Miles.’

  As reddy-brown fields and orange, pink and green rock like vegetable pâté flashed by, Steve was waving the rule book at poor Knickers. ‘An orchestra marches on its stomach,’ he was shouting. ‘That breakfast was a diabolical travesty.’

  ‘Foxie is so hungry,’ piped up Flora, making her puppet fox clutch his furry tummy, ‘that he’s going to eat Miles in a minute.’

  ‘Gimme that fox.’ Dixie, still plastered from the night before, snatched and threw Foxie to Randy, who threw him down the open compartment to Davie who threw him to Barry, who threw him to Carmine, who threw him out of the window, whereupon a screaming Flora pulled the communication cord, and the orchestra never made the Madrid rehearsal at all. Hilary was absolutely hopping because she was not going to see Guernica.

  ‘Why bother?’ said Viking. ‘It’s all around you.’

  The result was a duff Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The only thing which excited the fur-coated Madrid audience was Davie Buckle, his fluffy white drum heads frenziedly dancing on the surface of his kettle drums, going beserk in the scherzo.

  ‘Apart from Beethoven Nine and The Rite of Spring, all music is piffle,’ Davie told anyone who would listen, as he got legless afterwards in the bar of the Picasso Grand.

  It looked as though Abby’s suitors thronging the foyer just after midnight were going to be disappointed again. Returning from dinner with King Carlos, she had escaped to her suite up the back stairs.

  ‘No-one is going to get L’Appassionata into bed this evening either,’ announced Viking firmly. ‘She’s got to practise the Mozart concerto for tomorrow night.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ muttered Davie.

  As the week progressed, Abby in fact had hardly noticed her suitors, even Viking, because she was increasingly terrified about playing again in public. She was now so engrossed in perfecting the langorous trills of the adagio, she didn’t even notice the bulky figure on the balcony outside. Davie, having downed twelve pints of beer, and dropped his mobile down the lavatory trying to ring Brünnhilde in England, had intrepidly climbed across from the next-door balcony, and settled down to wait for Abby to finish practising.

  Three hours later, she wandered next door into her bedroom. Finding Old Henry sitting up in her bed, wearing only pyjama bottoms and reading Murder on the Nile, she was so bombed that she thought she’d strayed into the wrong room.

  ‘Oh Henry, just the person I wanted to see. I’m so sorry to barge in, but could you possibly help me with the dynamics in the rondo? Mozart puts in so few marks.’

  ‘It’s the same with his later piano concertos,’ Henry put a book mark in Murder on the Nile. ‘He leaves it up to you.’

  Even when they’d sorted out the problem and Abby asked Henry to rub tiger balm into her aching neck and shoulders, he made no pass.

  ‘She’s playing better than ever,’ he sighed to a lurking band of suitors when he finally left her room.

  ‘That two thousand could have bought you a bow and paid your gas bill,’ said Barry reprovingly.

  ‘Some things are more important than gas bills,’ said Old Henry.

  Abby took a long time to go to sleep. She was worried that every time she called the cottage to ask after the cats, she got her own voice on the answering-machine. Where the hell was Marcus? And although she doted on Rodney, she was depressed that the RSO were so longing to see him in Barcelona tomorrow. All the old anecdotes and catch phrases were coming out.

  ‘Why are we so happy, boys and girls? Because Uncle Rodney’s in charge. Where’s Dixie? When he arrives tell him he’s much too loud.’

  Programmes of Rodney’s concerts before the war; photographs of him looking dashing in the Navy or with great musicians: Solomon, Kreisler, Rubinstein, Callas and Gigli had been collected and framed. Messages of love were pouring in from the living: Domingo, Pavarotti, Kiri, Alfred Brendel, Simon Rattle, Pablo Gonzales, and Menuhin. They all loved Rodney. He had brought enormous fun to music.

  Forget the Bennies, the Maria Kusaks, the Bill Thackeries, and the Junos, thought Abby bitterly, Rodney in all his life never worked as hard as I do.

  Restlessly she picked up a fax from George that had just been shoved under the door. Rachel’s Requiem was Number Twenty in the classical charts, people were playing it on pop channels as well, and even more amazing, Sonny Parker’s Interruption Suite for lavatory chain, coughing, etc., had been nominated for a Gramophone award. The Observer had also got wind of her come-back and done a big piece headed: OUR OWN ABBY ROSEN.

  Abby felt happier and she fell into such a deep sleep, she didn’t even wake when dozing Davie fell off the balcony and sprained his ankle.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  No-one was more on the ball than George Hungerford. He understood balance sheets, had an instant grasp of any financial problem, never missed a crooked picture nor an appointment. He also drove the hardest bargains. The deal had been all. His first marriage had collapsed because he was a workaholic. To survive the pain, he had worked even harder.

  But now the RSO had gone like Bonnie Lesley to spread their conquests further, it was time for him to take stock of their future. Could they possibly survive even until Christmas? The latest estimate for the repairs and revamp of H.P. Hall was five million pounds. It was also essential that he devoted some time to his other companies, which, after all, brought in the dosh. Ten acres in central Manchester couldn’t run themselves.

  But George, who had never had a daydream in his life, found himself hopelessly inattentive. Only this morning he had found a file he had accused Jessica of losing in the office fridge, and his boxer shorts in the pedal dustbin at home instead of in the washing-machine.
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br />   He had even started reading horoscopes and poetry and gazing at the clump of beeches in the park whose leaves were turning the same red-gold as Flora’s hair. He ought to be looking for companies to buy and properties to snap up, but his mind, like Scarlatti’s Adonis, had turned from hunting to love. Frequently he was cast into an abyss of self-doubt. How could such a bright, beautiful young lady possibly fancy an uncouth, working-class, middle-aged, North-Country lout?

  All that he had to go on was that she had once called him a really sweet guy, but since then she’d scuttled away from him, and he’d been far too shy to ring her up.

  He should at least have been working out how they could cut costs on the orchestra’s trip up north for the Appleton Piano Competition; instead he sent for the holiday lists, and chose the weeks his Principal Viola, El Creepo, was away to programme Harold in Italy and Elgar’s In the South overture, both of which had wonderful solos for Flora.

  ‘Oh, she does teach the torches to burn bright,’ murmured George.

  Then Miss Priddock had barged in and announced that the soprano who was singing in The Messiah next month had decided to cry off because she was expecting triplets.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said George, ‘I was just brooshing oop on my obstetrical skills. Still she might have suspended belief when she sang, “A Virgin Shall Conceive”. Oh well… Flora can take her place. We’ll have to pay her extra though.’

  ‘Judgin’ by the way she’s been behavin’ on tour, Ay would have thought Flora would find it even more difficult to portray a virgin,’ said Miss Priddock with a sniff.

  ‘That was quite uncalled for,’ snapped George. ‘Get out.’

  Miss Priddock flounced off, squawking like a wet hen. George picked up The Times.

  ‘Venus is a morning object,’ he read in the monthly astronomy round-up of the stars.

  How could the Goddess of Love be so prosaically straitjacketed? In George’s heaven, she was on twenty-four-hour duty.

  Back came Miss Priddock, ten minutes later, exuding smugness and reproach in equal proportions, as she ushered in Gilbert and Gwynneth, whom George had clearly forgotten were coming. By this time, he was drinking a large Scotch, with his feet on the table, feeding strips of smoked salmon to a purring John Drummond, and watching a video of Flora singing The Creation.

  Gwynneth and Gilbert promptly went into raptures over the way Rannaldini had held the orchestra together after Hermione’s disappearance — surely the mark of a great conductor.

  ‘The orchestra played great,’ said George icily. ‘They saved the performance because they luv Flora and their pride is sooch they wouldn’t allow themselves to produce anything less than a rare defiant performance.’

  Gilbert and Gwynneth, who’d come to discuss the merger, or even dropping one orchestra altogether, which would save them even more money, were very disappointed. Rannaldini had given them to understand that George would co-operate in every way.

  ‘Man’s only interested in money,’ he had told them.

  Listening to Gilbert droning on and Gwynneth smacking her pale fat lips over Miss Priddock’s ginger bread, George started fidgetting with his right hand drawer, which opened to show a photograph of Ruth. George gazed at her perfect face for a long time. Underneath was his passport.

  Gilbert and Gwynneth were even more put out, when George announced he’d have to break up the meeting because he was off to Barcelona to give the orchestra moral support.

  ‘They’re playing chumpion,’ he went on. ‘Rachel’s Requiem’s in the Top Twenty in its first week — that’s because Abby’s photograph’s on the sleeve, and I want to wish Rodney a happy birthday.’

  ‘Oh, I wish I’d sent him a card,’ said Gwynneth looking caring, and deciding to forgive Rodney for his disparaging remarks about the Arts Council. ‘I draw them myself,’ she went on. ‘People often frame my cards.’

  ‘Who will hold the fort while you’re away?’ chuntered Gilbert.

  ‘I’ll be sending Miles back,’ said George, grabbing his briefcase and car keys. ‘After all, it’s the fort what counts.’ Good God, he was even making jokes like Flora now. ‘If it’s urgent,’ he handed a piece of paper to Miss Priddock, ‘you’ll find me on this number.’

  Gilbert and Gwynneth exchanged glances. They found Miles much easier to deal with.

  ‘Don’t forget the board meeting on Friday,’ Miss Priddock called after him.

  ‘I’d no idea he was going,’ said Jessica, when she returned from the dentist — then she whistled as far as her frozen jaws would allow. ‘Golly, that’s Ruth’s number he’s left. I’d forgotten she has a house near Marbella. Perhaps they’re getting back together again. He’s been ever so distracted recently. He didn’t even shout at me when I forgot to buy his lottery tickets.’

  Eyes were getting smaller with tiredness as the R.S.O. landed at Barcelona Airport, waists growing bigger. The musicians were sleepwalking, nodding off on any available sofa, armchair or bench.

  ‘I had warbling singers on either side of me last night,’ grumbled Simon. ‘Wonder if they sell sleeping-pills off prescription?’

  ‘Wish I could buy some homesick pills,’ sighed Julian.

  ‘I cut myself shaving this morning,’ said Randy, who was still drunk from last night. ‘My red eyes have nearly gone white again.’

  ‘Baa, baa, baa,’ bleated Dixie, as the entire orchestra, like zombies, followed him blindly into the airport Gents.

  Despite Knickers racing round like a collie nipping everyone’s ankles, it was half an hour before they all meandered out to the waiting coaches, eating chocolate, reading newspapers, putting new film in their cameras. Miles was absolutely fed up with them. Half of them had overslept and nearly missed the plane that morning.

  ‘If anyone loses their boarding passes or their hotel keys, or forgets to pay their bar bills once more, their pay will be docked,’ he yelled to each coach-load in turn. ‘And tomorrow morning I want you all to line up outside the hotel at six-thirty so we can take a roll-call.’

  ‘What about a roll-in-the-hay call?’ shouted Randy from the back of Moulin Rouge. As they drove past battlements and palm trees along the seafront, Dixie yelled, ‘Don’t forget to declare Hilly.’

  ‘Sneaks and lechers, come away, come away, come, come, come away,’ sang Cherub, going into fits of giggles which set the whole coach off.

  Hilary stopped writing postcards about the cathedral in Madrid.

  ‘Why d’you all reduce everything to your own disgusting level?’ she hissed.

  You’ll pay for this, thought Miles furiously. Every single one of you.

  He was even crosser three-quarters of an hour later. As Flora was struggling up the steep, narrow cobbled street to the hotel, weighed down by a heavy suitcase, her viola and a large bottle of Fundador, presented to her by a waiter last night, she felt a hand taking her suitcase and turned in amazement. No musician ever carried anyone else’s stuff. Then she dropped the Fundador with an almighty crash, for there stood George, sweating in a pin-striped suit, and blushing as much as she was.

  ‘I thought you were in Rutminster?’

  ‘I was. I thought I’d come and wish Rodney many happy returns.’

  For a moment they gazed at each other as brandy streamed down the street.

  ‘Sorry about the bottle,’ said George, clicking his fingers at the hotel porter to come and sweep it up.

  ‘Oh, it’s just good, clean Fundador,’ said Flora, belting into the hotel.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Viking, Dixie, Blue and Randy, who’d been following Flora up the hill.

  ‘That’s going to cut down our fun and games,’ said Blue, dropping to his knees and pretending to lick up the Fundador.

  ‘Why the hell isn’t he at home running the orchestra?’ said Dixie.

  ‘Into the ground,’ said Randy.

  Disloyally, they forgot that if it hadn’t been for George’s indefatigable fund-raising efforts they would never have been able to go on tour.


  ‘Perhaps he’s after Abby,’ said Dixie.

  ‘Well, he’s not going to win the two grand,’ snapped Viking.

  ‘No, he’s after the Steel Elf,’ said Randy.

  As Hilary handed her postcards to the hotel receptionist Viking noticed the top one was to Rannaldini in Czechoslovakia.

  ‘Our shit has reached Bohemia,’ he muttered to Blue. ‘I reckon Gilbert, Gwynneth, Rannaldini and Miles are all in cahoots. I better have a serious word with Rodney.’

  Miles was absolutely livid to be dispatched home by George. Telling Hilary to keep an eye on things and chronicle every misdemeanour, he flew northwards to Rutminster freezing like an iceberg as he went.

  Tiredness was forgotten as the orchestra dumped their bags and surged off in great expectations to meet Rodney.

  The beautiful little palace of music could have been designed especially for Rodney’s birthday. Stucco horses with rolling eyes romped high above the stage. Seats rose in tiers fantastically decorated with different coloured sugar tulips. From a ceiling, embossed with scarlet-and-white roses, hung a vast Tiffany lamp, glittering with amber, emerald and kingfisher-blue glass. On the faded terracotta mural, curving round behind the stage, garlanded nymphs in long flowery dresses played flutes and harps, violins and triangles, their eyes closed in deepest trance, bewitched by their music.

  ‘What maidens loth? What mad pursuit?… What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?’ murmured Flora, trying to tighten her strings with a trembling hand. What the hell was George doing here?

  Rodney’s dressing-room was already piled high with coloured envelopes and brightly wrapped presents. The RSO had clubbed together and given him a Victorian station-master’s cap and a new midnight-blue velvet cloak with a cherry-red lining. A huge iced cake in the shape of a train carrying eighty candles would be wheeled on after the concert. A florist was busy weaving dark red roses and white jasmine in and out of the rostrum.