by Jilly Cooper
Rupert agreed. ‘God, I hope you marry Marcus.’
Looking into her eyes, which were the light emerald of the winter barley rampaging over his fields, he picked up the sadness and remembered the gossip.
‘Still hung up on Rannaldini.’
‘I guess so, he recurs like malaria.’
‘You could do better.’
‘And I have to say that when I was at Bagley Hall, you were voted the man to whom we most wanted to lose our virginity.’
Rupert smiled.
‘If I wasn’t bespoke,’ he jerked his head towards Taggie, who was anxiously pouring a glass of Armagnac for Hermione, ‘I couldn’t think of anything nicer.’
‘You will go to Marcus’s concert, won’t you?’ pleaded Flora.
But Rupert had been distracted by the return of Helen suddenly looking radiant, tears dried like raindrops in a heatwave. Bewildered by her mood swings, Marcus sloped off to check with Mrs Bodkin who had telephoned.
‘He wouldn’t give his name, but it was a foreign-sounding gentleman.’
Marcus so hoped it was Boris, who had been screwing up courage to ask Helen out. But when she finally opened his present, the beautiful porcelain nightingale had shattered into a hundred pieces.
Alone in the kitchen Taggie cried and cried. An exhausted Marcus had finally got Helen to bed. Arthur, woken by the din, had been taken home by Lysander and Kitty, who had annexed Flora as well. Tab wasn’t in her room and had probably taken refuge with the grooms over the stables. Eddie had passed out on the sofa, leaving his teeth in one of Hermione’s crystallized greengages. Taggie had put a duvet over him. Hermione’s limo had borne her away to an early flight in the morning.
The dogs had collapsed on their bean bags. The dish-washer swished and swirled round the last consignment of rare glasses and coffee cups. Helen would have been appalled that Taggie hadn’t washed them by hand.
Only Rupert and Gertrude, the mongrel, who had taken umbrage over the new puppy and the crackers, and escaped through the cat door, were missing. Nimrod, the lurcher, brought out a rubber cutlet he had been given for Christmas and squeaked it to make Taggie laugh. But she went on crying so he slunk back to his basket.
‘I’ve lost my dog, my husband and the present list. No-one will know what anyone’s given anybody,’ sobbed Taggie.
She jumped at the crash of the cat door. There was a scampering of claws and in charged Gertrude, wearing Rupert’s black tie, and hurled herself on Taggie.
She was followed by Rupert squinting worse than ever. A blond lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, an empty brandy bottle swung between his fingers.
‘Gertrude and I have been hiding, we don’t want Mrs Fat Bum as a stepmother.’
‘She’s gone,’ sobbed Taggie.
‘Angel, what’s the matter?’
‘I wanted to show I was a better wife than Helen.’
‘Oh, darling,’ Rupert folded her in his arms. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit, but I can’t stand my first wife, and I loathe Hermione and Marcus gets on my tits and Tabitha’s impossible, and all I want to do is screw you stupid.’
‘I’m stupid anyway,’ said Taggie, but she stopped crying.
‘I was such a wreck when I met you,’ mumbled Rupert, ‘Helen just reminds me how vile I was. You’ve taught me to love.’ He kissed her wedding ring finger. ‘You’ve twisted me straight. I’ve got a present for you.’ Rootling in his pocket he produced a silver locket.
Inside were Daisy France-Lynch miniatures of Xav and Bianca.
Taggie nearly started crying again.
‘Oh how lovely, I wish there was room inside for you as well. Oh, thank you.’
‘I want a night inside your shining armour,’ said Rupert, fumbling with the pearl buttons of her silver cardigan. ‘I’m probably past it, but let’s go and try.’
‘Only if you promise to come to Marcus’s concert,’ said Taggie.
Unable to sleep, Marcus heard the two of them come to bed, softly laughing. Outside the clouds had rolled away leaving a pale grey sky so crowded with stars the constellations were indistinguishable. He had just made the agonizing decision that he couldn’t go back to the Academy next term either. Tab would return to Bagley Hall in a fortnight, he couldn’t leave Helen alone in the Old Rectory in this state.
EIGHTEEN
Dame Edith Spink, composer, conductor and musical director of Venturer Television and the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra, had been responsible for Marcus’s recital in Cotchester.
Built like Thomas the Tank Engine, she had leant on Cotchester Musical Society of which she was president.
‘Boy’s extremely talented,’ she boomed, glaring at the wilting committee through her monocle, ‘and incredibly cheap for one hundred pounds.’
This was a considerable plus because the musical society never had any money.
Marcus had already learnt Chopin’s Grande Polonaise, The Bee’s Wedding and Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata for the concert he’d cancelled because of Malise’s death so he decided to play them again. The Appassionata was fiendishly difficult, but it would be a compliment to Abby, who had dominated his thoughts throughout the long winter in Warwickshire, and who had promised to bring Rodney over from Lucerne for the concert. He would kick off with two Scarlatti sonatas and, then as a compliment to Boris, end the second half with his titanic Siberian Suite.
This had dismayed his piano teacher, Miss Chatterton, known at college as ‘Chatterbox’, when Marcus visited her in her leafy North London suburb the day before the concert.
‘Levitsky isn’t remotely audience-friendly,’ Chatterbox absorbed modern jargon, then flogged it to death. ‘The provinces hate contemporary music, particularly if they can’t pronounce it. You’ll have them leaving in droves. At least end with the Chopin so they’ve got something to look forward to.’
‘The programme’s already printed,’ sighed Marcus. ‘Anyway I can’t let Boris down, he’s so low.’
Boris’s thumping great crush on his mother showed no signs of abating, even though Helen wasn’t responding at all. She had hardly thanked Boris for the porcelain nightingale and, claiming she was too busy with Marcus’s recital to see him, had thrown herself into the role of supportive mother with a vengeance.
The lovely golden walled cathedral town of Cotchester had been a royalist stronghold in the Civil War. After an appalling journey with wind and rain nearly sweeping him off the motorway, Marcus arrived around teatime at the town hall, a splendid baroque edifice two hundred yards down the High Street from Venturer Television.
His hopes of a peaceful couple of hours rehearsing were shattered by Helen who was standing on the steps pointing in horror at his poster and brandishing a programme.
‘How could you bill yourself just as Marcus Black?’
‘I don’t want to cash in on Dad’s name.’
‘It’s the only thing he’s given you.’
‘Except a lot of dosh,’ protested Marcus, getting his dark suit and his music case out of the Aston.
‘And why did you send them that awful photograph?’ moaned Helen, ‘Your hair was longer than his was.’ She pointed disapprovingly at Charles I’s statue in the centre of the Market Square.
‘He was lucky only getting his head cut off.’ Ruefully, Marcus stroked his own short back and sides.
‘Looks much better,’ said Helen, who, because Rupert was expected, had nagged him all week to have a haircut.
Marcus glared at his reflection in the dark mirror in the foyer.
‘Everyone’ll see my ears going bright red with nerves.’
‘I hope you washed them.’
‘Mu-um, they don’t have opera glasses at recitals.’
Picking up the programme he gave a shout of laughter for above his name it said, in large letters: An explosive new talent, Dame Edith Spunk.
But Helen was in no mood for jokes. Last night the Cotswold Hunt, who seemed to epitomize Rupert’s disreputable past, had hired the hal
l for their annual Hunt Ball.
Apart from a disgusting stench of drink and cigarettes, they had left three broken windows letting in a vicious east wind, a lot of sick in the Ladies, a pair of red knickers and some suspicious-looking stains on the sofa bed in Marcus’s dressing-room. Even worse, there were drink rings, cigarette burns, spilt bourbon and candle-wax all over the keys of a grand piano on which Marcus was expected to play.
Marcus was delighted. His hands sweated dreadfully before a concert and it would be far easier to grip the keys, particularly the black notes, of which there were thousands in the F minor Appassionata, if the piano were sticky and dirty. Alas, Helen then explained virtuously that she had already set to with a flurry of meths and righteous indignation. The keys were now so clean they would slip away from his fingers like minnows.
Soloists have been known to sandpaper down the ivories of concert grands to get a better grip. Rubenstein had even sprayed the keys with hair lacquer. But there was no way Marcus could find lacquer on a late Sunday afternoon.
Just managing not to snap at Helen, he was cheered by the number of cards and presents in his dressing-room, particularly when he found Abby had sent him a beautiful green-leather-bound copy of The Tempest postmarked Lucerne. Inside she had written:
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury, and my passion, With its
sweet air.
Good luck, Marcus,
Warmest
L’Appassionata.
Marcus trembled with excitement as he smelt the faint trace of her scent on the pages.
Next he opened a silver shamrock from Declan O’Hara and a bottle of Moët from Flora’s mother, both thanking him for the invitation to the recital, but regretting they would be away.
What invitation? Marcus felt a wave of anger. Helen had obviously been at work again. There were other good luck cards from famous friends of his parents he hadn’t seen since he was a child.
As he hung up his suit in the cupboard, he found a pale gold silk dress with an Yves Saint Laurent label, which he hadn’t seen before.
Outside, he could hear Helen saying: ‘We’re expecting Sir Rodney Macintosh, Declan O’Hara, Dame Edith, Boris Levitsky and Georgie Maguire and loads of students and teachers from the Academy. Marcus’s father is flying back specially from the yearling sales in Florida. And, oh, I forgot, Abby Rosen’s coming, yes the violinist, my son has a bit of a reputation as a lady’s man.’
Rushing into the passage before Helen became even more cringe-making, Marcus found her talking to an old biddy in a long grey overcoat, who had the face of a rather over-excited dromedary and a drifting white bun like an icepack on top of her head.
Helen introduced her as Miss Smallwood, the social secretary.
‘Our artist,’ bleated Miss Smallwood eagerly. ‘Are you like your father? Well, perhaps not,’ she sounded slightly disappointed. ‘I was wondering if you could give a little talk to our members before the concert.’
‘A-a-absolutely n-n-not,’ stammered Marcus. ‘And Mum, Georgie and Declan can’t make it.’
All he wanted to do was to get at the piano, slippery keys and all. He found the sound hard and bright in the treble, but after having ‘Lydia Pinker’ and ‘American Pie’ bashed out on it all last night, it was very woolly in the bass. He would have to pound the keys to make the left-hand lines in the Appassionata clear enough.
Nor, unlike the Cotswold Hunt, could the musical society afford to heat the hall which was getting colder by the minute. Marcus couldn’t play if he were cold.
He couldn’t play now. Helen, stationing herself bossily round the hall to test the accoustics, kept snapping his concentration.
‘I can’t hear you from here. You’re very faint from here.’ Then up in the gallery, where she found a white bra with Tabitha’s name-tape inside. ‘You really must project more from here.’
He’d reached screaming pitch when the piano tuner rolled up and proceeded to bang out Chopin’s Grande Polonaise far better than he had, so Marcus retreated to the upright in his dressing-room to run through certain tricky passages only to be interrupted by Helen again.
Venturer Television, BBC Cotchester, The Times and Classical Music all wanted to interview him. Wasn’t it exciting? As he wasn’t prepared to give a little talk, she’d arranged a press conference with sandwiches and glasses of wine.
Marcus was aghast.
‘I can’t, Mum, for Christ’s sake. They’re only here because of Dad. I have to go into myself before a concert and be completely alone with the music.’
‘Uh-uh,’ Helen shook her head playfully. ‘You’re not going to have a moment to feel nervous.’
You mean you’re not risking a re-run of the cock-up at Malise’s funeral, thought Marcus.
‘We’re jolly well going to show Rupert this time,’ said Helen.
Marcus started to shake and wheeze and took a couple of puffs from his inhaler. He’d already used it too much in the last forty-eight hours. His throat was very sore. He had the beginnings of a rash round his mouth.
Out of the window in the dusk, he could see the great shadow of the cathedral like a warning finger, and the wind pleating the flooded water meadows and lashing the trailing twigs of the weeping willows almost horizontal.
Marcus managed to smile at the Press, but he could hardly remember his date of birth. Only when they asked him which pianists he most admired he had no difficulty in saying Emil Gilels, Myra Hess and Solomon and, among the living, Pablo Gonzales. As he suspected, the Press were only interested in him in relation to Rupert.
But was trying to master that big black brute of a piano all that different to getting the best out of a difficult horse? he wondered. As a child Marcus’s worst nightmare had been going into restaurants or to airports with Rupert, who so instantly and effortlessly attracted the limelight. It was ironic that he had chosen a profession entirely dependent on limelight. But it was the only way he could express himself and more recently, the only way he could tell Abby what he felt about her. But it was not to be. As the Press were trailing out, Abby telephoned.
‘I’m so sorry, Marcus, but Rodney’s been hospitalized with bronchitis. I guess it isn’t serious but I daren’t leave him. I know you’ll be great and see you very soon.’
As Marcus put down the telephone almost weeping with disappointment, Miss Smallwood handed him some drooping crimson flowers.
‘Hellebores from Dame Hermione’s own garden,’ she said reverently. ‘Her gardener brought them all the way from Paradise. Dame Hermione wishes you all the luck in the world, but daren’t risk a cold in this weather, such a caring person.’
By seven o’clock the hall was filling up with members of the musical society, variations on Miss Smallwood in flat shoes, long coats with triangles of brightly coloured scarves around their necks, all huddling together for warmth. Any hell fires fanned by the Cotswold Hunt Ball had receded long ago.
Two more telephone apologies came from Rupert’s friend, Basil Baddingham and the Bishop of Cotchester, who both claimed to be laid low by the same bug. As a note of bathos the hunt saboteurs had got the night wrong and rolled up to wave placards saying: ‘Cotswold Butchers’ and ‘Don’t victimize our vixens’ and generally hassle the Hunt Ball. Learning Rupert, who’d hunted with the Cotswold all his life, was expected later, they decided to hang around.
As Marcus changed into his dark suit and had fearful difficulty putting cuff-links into his grey-and-white striped shirt, he noticed the coloured windows of Cotchester Cathedral lit up for Evensong.
He should be the one on his knees praying for his hubris in thinking he could play the Appassionata and the Siberian Suite. Even the Chopin was so clear and linear, it gave you nowhere to hide and the left-hand part was just as challenging as the right.
Having showered and washed her hair, Helen had changed into the gold silk dress and wanted approval.
‘You look stunning, Mum.’
‘You re
ally think so, and it goes with these shoes?’
‘Perfect,’ said Marcus dutifully.
‘I guess I had to have something new. It’s your first professional date.’
She has no idea, thought Marcus in despair, as he put on a crocus-yellow tie, bought for him by Flora to jazz up his whole outfit.
‘Isn’t that rather loud?’ began Helen.
There was a rat-tat-tat on the door.
‘Fifteen minutes, Mr Black,’ cried Miss Smallwood, ‘and Lady Baddingham’s just arrived,’ she added excitedly. ‘But she’s afraid Dame Edith has been struck down by the same dreaded lurgy as our bishop.’
Marcus fought an hysterical desire to laugh.
Monica Baddingham, Basil’s sister-in-law, had caused an uproar last year when she had walked out on her vicious venal husband of nearly twenty-five years’ standing and moved in with Dame Edith.
Such was Monica’s popularity in the area – she had worked endlessly for charity and been kind to everyone and she seemed so blissfully happy with Dame Edith – that the scandal had blown over. Helen would normally have disapproved violently of such bohemian escapades, but realizing how influential Monica had suddenly become in the music world, she scuttled out to say hallo.
She was less amused by the arrival of a very jocund company from the Academy who conga-ed in led by Flora. In order to drink on the way down they had hired a minibus and had now stationed themselves on the left side of the hall so Marcus’s ravishing female fan club could drool over him while he played.
Boris, also on the bus, was in a frightful state of nerves. His hair looked even more electrocuted than usual. He wore a grey track suit, the loose trousers of which kept falling down his chunky body, and his suede feet seemed to curl round each other like bear claws.
‘I don’t want Siberian Suite to be hackled.’
He was longing to sit next to Helen who meanly introduced him to Marcus’s teacher, Miss Chatterton, so they could be nervous together.
‘Do tell Marcus,’ Miss Chatterton begged Helen, ‘that the audience will only enjoy it if Marcus smiles and enjoys it, too.’
