by Jilly Cooper
TWENTY-FOUR
Abby’s reviews were sensational. MIGHTY LIKE A ROSEN, wrote the Observer, ABBY INTERNATIONAL, said the Telegraph. Even the Rutshire Butcher, a local malcontent, who strung and strung up for The Times, who had a terrifying influence over the Arts Council and who usually flayed the orchestra alive, was extraordinarily complimentary and compared Abby to Lester Piggott galvanizing a seaside donkey into winning the Derby.
The RSO grumbled that it was always the same, if a concert was bad, the orchestra got slated, if good the conductor was praised, but in reality they were euphoric, and so were the management. The takings, plus an unexpected one hundred thousand pound legacy from some local philanthropist, went a long way to wiping out the massive overdraft run up by Rodney overpaying his famous friends.
Despite the accolades, Abby felt very flat and restless after the concert. She was also ashamed of being vile to Marcus, but when she rang the Old Rectory, Mrs Edwards, in high excitement, revealed that Marcus had moved out and not left an address.
Back at H.P. Hall, however, Mark Carling had received a fax from Boris’s agent: Boris wanted to duck out of conducting the Modern Music series, because he was still wrestling with Rachel’s Requiem, which would now have to be rescheduled yet again.
As a result, Howie and Mark engaged in a little horse trading. Abby would be allowed to cut her teeth on the Modern Music series, and Howie would let the RSO have Shepherd Denston soloists and singers at a discount. Megagram were delighted. Abby’s reissued records were racing up the classical charts. The orchestra was thrilled. The Modern Music series, known as ‘Squeakygate’, and only put on to suck up to the Arts Council, was anathema, and now they could at least relieve the boredom by lusting after Abby. Abby was equally thrilled and, already getting above herself, talking to Flora in grandiose fashion about being the next Giulini.
Temporarily she decided to stay at the Old Bell, and was put in the Lord Byron Suite overlooking the river. There was a facsimile of ‘So, we’ll go no more a roving’ on the wall, and a painting of Byron in a turban, looking as dark and explosive as Abby herself.
With concerts most Saturdays, the orchestral weekend fell on Sunday and Monday. Arriving on her first Tuesday, Abby found the dark red H.P. Hall rising out of a ruff of white cherry blossom.
Standing on a flat roof, letting down rolls of different brands of lavatory paper to test which was the longest, were Miss Priddock, assorted secretaries and John Drummond the cat, who fancied himself in an Andrex ad.
This was yet another economy measure, along with stopping the orchestra using the management telephones, reducing the wattage of the light bulbs, and not replacing musicians when they resigned.
On the way to the dressing-room, Abby passed the sanctimonious and detested general manager of the orchestra, Miles Brian-Knowles, inevitably known as ‘Brown-Nose’. Miles had thatched mousy hair, a complexion like luncheon meat, caused by frequent outbreaks of acne, a permanently pursed mouth and eyes so close together they could see through the same keyhole. A born-again Christian, who held prayer meetings with selected members of the orchestra, Miles always wore shirts with a high white collar giving him an ecclesiastical look, and softly soled shoes, enabling him to spy out bad behaviour and then sneak to Peggy Parker. He’d achieved Olympic-level at sucking up to his superiors hence the nickname. He was now having a row with Viking.
‘You were not at your great-aunt’s funeral,’ he was saying in an aggrieved fluting curate’s voice. ‘I saw you with my own eyes playing on television for the London Met.’
‘Indeed you did not,’ Viking was saying indignantly. ‘That was my twin brother Danny, he’s a far finer player than me.’
‘Why wasn’t he burying your great-aunt?’
‘Danny has no sense of duty.’ Viking raised his eyes piously to heaven.
‘I do not believe you, Viking. You did not apply for a letter releasing you to play for the London Met. You could be sacked for this. And please don’t bring that dog in here.’ He glared at Mr Nugent who sat listening with his head on one side.
Viking’s spreading his wings, thought Abby, Covent Garden last month, the Festival Hall this. Juno’s pressurizing was beginning to work.
In the auditorium the orchestra were re-assembling, discussing rooms they’d wallpapered or plants they’d bought over the weekend. A violinist was cutting his nails. Two women viola players were trying to organize a dinner party.
Abby was given a desultory clap when she came in. In return she thanked the RSO for a wonderful concert, and said how happy she was to see them again.
‘Now let’s have an A, Simon,’ she asked the First Oboe.
Because it was April Fool’s Day, Simon Painshaw, with a completely straight face, played A flat.
‘Everyone transpose half a tone up,’ said Abby, who had absolute pitch and knew it was April Fool’s Day, and brought her stick down.
Caught on the hop, the orchestra burst out laughing and gave her a proper round of applause.
The morning was spent sifting through repertoire, struggling with a lot of swearing through a horror by a member of the Lesser Avant-Garde of Bulgaria, full of grunts and shrieks as though a tom-cat was being gang-raped by elderly badgers. They then moved on to an appalling serenade for solo triangle, cow bells and tom-toms with extended catawauls on the strings, written by someone called Roger Parker.
Viking immediately took out a final reminder from British Telecom and on the back drew a bucket, and wrote ‘crap’ on the side, then handed it down the row. Abby, of the same mind, called a halt after five minutes.
‘We’re not programming this garbage.’
‘Maestro,’ Dixie Douglas, the troublemaking First Trombone, put down page three of the Sun and raised a large red hand. ‘I would respectfully submit that this is a work of towering genius.’
The orchestra laughed.
Dixie then explained that the ‘garbage’ entitled ‘Eternal Triangle’, had been composed by ‘Sonny’ Parker, Peggy’s ghastly son, the RSO’s composer-in-residence.
It was hoped Mrs Parker would give a quarter of a million pounds towards the orchestra’s centenary celebrations next year.
‘A concert has been planned for her sixtieth birthday,’ concluded Dixie, ‘in the gre-ounds of her ’uge house.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Abby mutinously. ‘It’s still garbage.’
The orchestra exchanged delighted glances. A run-in between L’Appassionata and Nosy Parker had distinct possibilities.
Later Abby had a cup of coffee with Mark Carling who was beginning to meet her eyes and joke with her.
‘“Magnificent” is not the word you’d use about this office,’ he gazed round at the chaos.
Mark was a sweet man, who loved music with a passion and who had previously been very happy running an early music group in London.
‘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 t
he 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.<
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‘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.
