Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  There was a rip in Abby’s jeans, a smudge on her forehead and her dark curls stood on end.

  She had had a frightening and exhausting three days and had only come back because she had exchanged a few comforting words with Rodney, who had urged her to carry on with Squeakygate.

  ‘He was so darling,’ she said, as Miss Priddock bustled in with a fresh pot of tea. ‘He sent you all his love, particularly you, Miss Priddock, and said please don’t worry. He said he’d get much better much quicker if they added some Krug to his drip, and at one moment, he looked round at all the tubes,’ Abby gave a sob, ‘and then said, “Darling girl, I’m not frightened of death, it’s just getting there that worries me”’

  When they offered her the job, she burst into tears for a second time, and hugged everyone including El Creepo. Her delight and her impassioned promise that she would work her heart out for Rodney’s orchestra, until he could take over again, touched them all.

  ‘The problem with modern orchestras,’ she went on, ‘is that conductors are so busy jetting round the world, they never have time to learn the repertoire or get to know the orchestra. I want to live in Rutminster and become part of the community. Thank you all for giving me this wonderful chance. Can I sign the contract as soon as possible, in case you change your minds?’

  ‘Who is going to tell the orchestra?’ asked El Creepo nervously, after she’d gone.

  ‘Oh, tell them after the contract’s signed,’ said Harry Hopcroft. ‘We don’t want them putting their oar in.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Having been nearly flattened by musicians charging out of rehearsal to the Shaven Crown, Abby floated off to ring Howie, who gave her a bollocking for over-enthusiasm.

  ‘If you hadn’t rolled over we could have screwed another grand a concert out of them. I’m only going to draw up the contract for a year, right? To see how you get on.’

  Privately he was convinced the RSO would have folded long before then.

  As everyone had gone home, Abby stole into the auditorium which seemed filled with the ghosts of former players. Herbert Parker’s haberdasher’s gold crest of interwoven thimbles, needles and cotton reels glittered on the faded dark green velvet curtains. Even the gold cherubs decorating the fronts of the boxes seemed to be tooting their long trumpets to welcome her.

  ‘My band, my own band,’ sang Abby, waltzing down the aisle in ecstasy. ‘I’m gonna make you the greatest band in the world.’

  Leaping onto the rostrum, she was singing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony: ‘De, de, de, dum, de, de, de, dum, de, de, de, dum’, at the top of her voice and conducting with wild flourishes, when someone started playing the First Violin part. Whipping round, Abby nearly died of embarrassment to find Hugo who’d been working late.

  ‘How was Rodney? Better it would seem.’

  ‘I figure he’ll pull through,’ Abby leapt down from the rostrum, ‘he’s determined to ride in his new train. Thank you so much for driving me to the airport.’

  Something’s happened to her, she’s glowing, thought Hugo in disquiet, and it’s nothing to do with Rodney. God, he hoped Viking hadn’t got there first.

  ‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream. You must be in love.’

  ‘Oh I am,’ Abby whirled round the platform.

  Bugger Viking, thought Hugo.

  ‘In love with a whole big orchestra, right? Promise, promise you won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘You are looking,’ Abby paused in mid-whirl, nearly falling over, ‘at your new boss.’

  ‘What!’ No cymbal crash could have been louder.

  ‘The Board’s just appointed me musical director.’

  Hugo was enchanted, particularly because it had nothing to do with Viking, and suggested dinner at a discreet out-of-town restaurant, the Heavenly Host, in Paradise.

  The sunny day had turned into a beautiful evening with the first green leaves spotlit by the falling sun against a navy-blue sky. Lambs were racing in the fields, cricketers in sweaters were practising in the nets. Hugo pointed out various pretty thatched cottages belonging to members of the orchestra, including his own, which was smothered in clematis montana with a front garden filled with grape hyacinths and primroses.

  ‘This is where you should get a place. I come home in the evening, see cows in the fields, and stop thinking “Bloody orchestra”. We can have a night-cap there later if you’re not too tired.’

  ‘I’d just love to,’ said Abby.

  Hugo was such a gentleman, he’d never try anything unless she wanted it. But, looking at his beautifully manicured hands on the wheel and his powerful thighs in those lemon cords, she thought perhaps she did.

  Hugo would be the perfect man, kind, sophisticated, utterly honourable, with whom to celebrate the end of three years’ celibacy.

  ‘That’s Rannaldini’s house,’ Hugo halted, putting a caressing hand round her left shoulder and pulling her across the same powerful thighs, so that out of the side-window, she could see Valhalla, towering and tasselled with emerald-green larches.

  ‘How can he leave such a fantastic place to work in New York?’

  As they arrived at the restaurant, Hugo pointed out a pilgrimage of frogs laboriously crawling across Paradise High Street on their way to the River Fleet.

  ‘Just like the RSO, no matter who they’re bonking, how much they’ve drunk, whatever mischief they’re up to, oversleeping or missing the bus, some inner clock tells them the time and somehow they always make the gig.’

  ‘That’s so dear,’ said Abby in a choked voice. ‘And this is so gorgeous,’ she cried as they went into the restaurant.

  Angels reclining on clouds and twanging gold harps had been painted on the walls. Pretty waitresses, in flowing white robes and haloes, handed out scrolls instead of menus. Vases of lilies stood on each celestial blue table.

  Being mid-week, the restaurant was pretty empty. Hugo felt free to talk and, over a celebratory bottle of Moët, he told Abby about the Berlin Wall existing between the musicians and the management, who were known as the ‘Fourth Reich’.

  ‘The management think the orchestra are a bunch of capricious, male-dominated, backbiting, money-grubbing hooligans. The orchestra think management is inefficient, lazy, uppity, tone deaf, overpaid and spends its time drinking coffee and taking three-hour lunches.’

  The candlelight gave a warmth to Hugo’s sallow skin, his dark eyes gleamed with laughter.

  ‘The only time the orchestra venture onto the top floor is to ask for days off or more money, or make private telephone calls. In fact the orchestra’s attitude to management,’ Hugo picked up the menu, ‘was summed up this afternoon by the chairman of the Players’ Committee telling the Press about Mark Carling’s resignation.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Abby fascinated.

  ‘He said: “I feel great joy and sadness. Joy that Mr Carling is leaving, but sadness that it won’t be for another three months.”’

  ‘That’s obnoxious,’ Abby was shocked rigid.

  ‘And that,’ sighed Hugo, ‘after all Mark’s done for the orchestra. Poor guy was so upset, he’s walked out, and we’ll have to put up with that dickhead Miles Brown-Nose until they appoint another managing director.

  ‘But with an average RSO salary of fifteen thousand pounds and most of them forced to take teaching jobs and freelance work to pay the mortgage,’ said Hugo fairly, ‘it’s not surprising they’re tired, tetchy and demoralized.

  ‘They’re all spoilt,’ he went on. ‘They’ve been the best player in their school, in the local youth orchestra, probably at college. Parental hopes centred on them, so on the one hand you’re dealing with eighty-six Pavarottis who all think they can play the concerto better than the soloist. On the other hand they’ve been soured by being told how to play Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony every week by a different idiot, who earns more in an evening than they all do put together in a month. The hall is terrible,’ he went on, ‘a blackbird o
n the first day of spring would sound dire in there, and there’s no money to repair it.’

  ‘Are you ready to order, Monsieur de Ginèstre?’ an angelic waitress put down a plate of little pies, filled with salmon mousse and scrambled eggs, and topped up Abby’s glass.

  Hugo, who had hardly touched his, because he had been talking so much, ordered garlic mushrooms for himself and Abby as a first course. After a lot of French chat du jour with the manager, they agreed on boeuf bourguignonne, new potatoes and haricot verts as a main course.

  ‘Musicians love food,’ said Hugo. ‘The best thing about a concert is eating afterwards. Tomorrow night,’ he put a leisurely hand on Abby’s jeaned thigh, ‘I will cook for you.’

  Abby, who hadn’t eaten all day, was trying not to wolf all the little pies.

  ‘Go on about the orchestra, I guess I better know the worst.’

  ‘The main problem,’ Hugo was studying the wine list with intensity, ‘is that there isn’t room in the area for two orchestras. And the Arts Council are dying to close one down. There’s only fifty miles between us and the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra, who are smaller and much better run by Dame Edith Spink. And they’ve got the backing of Venturer Television. As a result they’re pinching more and more of our dates, and more of our sponsors.

  ‘They specialize in early music when they are not programming Dame Edith’s junk. They’ve done fifteen CDs in the last seven months, and they’ve got some really good musicians. The RSO used to be a terrific orchestra, specializing in heavyweight nineteenth-century music.’

  ‘And will be again,’ interrupted Abby firmly. ‘But first I gotta fire some of the musicians. Juno Meadows for a start, she’s awful, and there are some dreadful string players, and an old boy in Viking’s section, who should have been pensioned off years ago, as should that old bass player, with the hearing-aid, for Christ’s sake. And the First Clarinet’s a basket case.’

  ‘His wife keeps threatening to leave him, normally he’s a good player,’ protested Hugo.

  She doesn’t miss a trick, he thought.

  ‘Omigod,’ Abby gave a moan of greed as a huge cloud-shaped plate of mushrooms, dripping in garlic butter and parsley, was placed on the blue table-cloth for them to share.

  ‘Tuck in,’ said Hugo.

  Abby, however, was reluctant to be distracted. Dunking a piece of bread in the butter, she said: ‘Most of that lot will have to go.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ Hugo popped a mushroom into her mouth, ‘because there’ll probably be a mass exodus once they hear you’ve been appointed. Then you can slot in your own people.’

  ‘Will they be very hostile?’ said Abby in alarm.

  ‘They won’t like working for a woman.’

  ‘But there are lots of women in the orchestra.’

  ‘That’s different, they’re in subordinate positions. Mary Melville, Principal Second Violin and Clarissa, Principal Cello, are the only section leaders.’

  ‘But they’ve been darling, so far,’ Abby felt champagne, garlic mushrooms and too many pies churning unpleasantly round and took a slug of water.

  ‘That’s because no-one takes Squeakygate seriously,’ confessed Hugo. ‘They loved Rodney, but they still winged about him. Now he’s gone, they’ll canonize him. Orchestras see the fronts of conductors so they only fall in love with their departing backs.

  ‘You must be tough with them, Abby, or they’ll walk all over you, and you must keep your distance. You’re a very attractive woman, but once one of them gets you into bed, the rest will be wildly jealous and lose any respect for you. And don’t think they’ll keep it a secret. You can’t be a member of the Celtic Mafia unless you report back on every conquest.’

  Sidling down the heavenly blue velvet banquette, Hugo slid an arm round Abby, and pressed his lips to hers.

  Abby was so startled, she kissed him back, a glorious exchange of garlic butter: her first French French kiss. Sitting down, Hugo was the same height as her.

  ‘I can’t wait to show you my cottage,’ he whispered.

  ‘I haven’t showered since this morning,’ stammered Abby, then kicked herself for being so gauche. Frenchmen were supposed to relish unwashed women, like camembert.

  ‘I’ve just had a Jacuzzi installed,’ Hugo seemed to read her mind.

  ‘I thought you said I mustn’t screw any members of the orchestra,’ chided Abby, who was nevertheless getting wildy excited.

  ‘I did,’ Hugo’s eyes were no longer soulful, but smiling wickedly – d’Artagnan of the flashing rapier again.

  ‘Quite frankly I can’t stand playing second fiddle to Lionel Fielding any more, he’s back the day after tomorrow and he’s such a wanker, so I’m off to lead the CCO. Edith and I were bashing out the nuts and bolts after your début concert. I gave my notice in this afternoon,’ he added triumphantly. ‘I’m no longer a member of your orchestra, my darling, so there’s nothing to keep us apart.’

  And he lunged back into the attack.

  Abby was so enraged that her great ally was abandoning her in her hour of need, that she leapt to her feet, and emptied the plate of mushrooms and butter all over Hugo’s yellow cords.

  Then she shouted across to the manager: ‘If you bring in the boeuf bourguignonne, I’ll empty that over the son-of-a-bitch, too.’

  And she stalked out.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Abby’s spirits were scarcely raised the following morning when she went into the general office to study the wall chart of future engagements. It was like a wallflower’s dance programme. There should have been bookings two years ahead. The RSO hardly knew what they were doing in the autumn.

  A moment later, Miss Priddock rushed in brandishing the Rutminster Echo as if there’d been a death in the family.

  RUTMINSTER ABBY, shrieked the huge headline.

  Someone, probably Hugo, incensed by the destruction of his yellow cords, had leaked the story of her appointment.

  ‘Some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them,’ wrote the Rutshire Butcher, arguing that Abby was an example of the John Major Syndrome. ‘You push someone young and inexperienced into a position of huge responsibility and then you pray like hell,’ which didn’t make Abby any happier.

  The orchestra, with predictable artistic caprice, were absolutely livid. They had not been consulted. Abby hadn’t worked her way up as a conductor. She had no track record.

  ‘It’s a nice day, let’s go on strike,’ said Randy Hamilton, who’d had a big win on the Grand National and wanted to play golf with Dixie.

  The rest of the orchestra were too strapped for cash to strike and plotted rebellion. It had been a lark having Abby poncing around with Squeakygate, but there was no way they were having her as musical director, planning the repertoire and taking over all Rodney’s concerts. They vowed to break her in a month.

  ‘Poor Princesse Lointaine,’ sighed Viking, when she gave him back his St Christopher. ‘The honeymoon’s over before you even had time for a wedding night.’

  Instantly the orchestra started making her life a misery, turning rehearsals into the worst kind of blackboard jungle, barracking her, anwering back, carrying on when she told them to stop, passing notes, farting, burping and in her first concert as musical director, totally ignoring her and playing the Dvŏrák Cello Concerto and Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony exactly as they had always played them. Abby felt as effectual as a tiny child trying to flag down a passing helicopter.

  At this initial concert, she first fully appreciated the deficiencies of the hall. The acoustics were frightful. The whole building trembled every time the express to Paddington went by. Every fire engine, back-firing car and tolling cathedral clock could be heard. Rain poured through the roof. Now she realized why they’d installed portaloos for her début concert. Only the most deafening tutti could drown the clanking of chains in the Ladies.

  Nor did Abby get any support from Lionel Fielding, the leader, and Hugo’s reason for leaving, when h
e returned. He should have acted as a buffer between her and the orchestra, but accustomed to being a big fish and finding a far greater violinist had been appointed over him, he flew back in a rage that he had not been consulted.

  Lionel was a very vain man, whose romantic good looks were marred by a petulant expression. Although he spent more time blow-drying his flowing ebony locks in the leader’s room than practising his solos, he wasn’t above launching into a Paganini Caprice before concerts just to unnerve less experienced string players.

  He loved all the little marks of respect owed a leader, musicians standing up for him, being asked to dinner with the board and to parties after concerts. And since he had been guesting with a northern orchestra, who had a very lush leader’s room, with an en suite bathroom, a sofa, fridge and coffee machine, he was very discontented with the chair in a large cupboard provided by the RSO, and determined to replace it with something grander.

  Known as the ‘Incredible Sulk’ because of his black moods, Lionel had a sweet wife, Miriam, who used to play Second Oboe. Lionel, however, had insisted she return home to look after their three children – ‘I will not have latch-key kids’ – leaving him free to pursue the Second Clarinet, Hilary Lloyd.

  Nicknamed the ‘Swan of Purley’, because she was the leader’s mistress, Hilary Lloyd was an organizing bitch in her late twenties, who ran the RSO conker competition and terrorized any young pretty girl in the orchestra, by raising her eyebrows and sighing every time they played a wrong note. She also put in industrial earplugs in protest against the din of the brass section and to unnerve her section leader, a gentle old boy called Eldred whose job she wanted.

  A school sneak, Hilary never forgot a birthday nor an insult. The players tended to suck up to her because as leader’s pet, she could make life very difficult, particularly in a time of recession. She had a very inflated idea of herself and would suddenly yell out, ‘Lionel, the First Violins ought to be more pianissimo,’ in the middle of a rehearsal, which was completely out of order.