by Jilly Cooper
‘Mostly singing Eve. We’re doing The Creation as an end-of-term concert.’
‘D’you have to strip off?’ shouted Dixie from the back.
Flora laughed. ‘I’m allowed to keep on my fig-leaf.’
‘Going to give us a demo?’ asked Dixie.
‘That’s quite enough,’ snapped Lionel. ‘Trust you to lower the tone, Dixie.’
‘I only wanted Flora to lower her fig-leaf.’
‘I would like to ask Miss Seymour,’ Miles glared at Dixie, ‘why she wants to play in an orchestra, and the RSO in particular.’
For once Flora seemed lost for words as her eyes ran over the men staring at her, then she beamed from ear to ear.
‘I guess I’d like some fun.’
Everyone beamed back.
Much too sexy for her own or anyone else’s good, thought George.
In the end, the RSO offered Flora six months’ trial.
‘In case either of us don’t like each other,’ said El Creepo, ‘which is most unlikely.’
‘I’m afraid we can only offer you thirteen thousand a year,’ said Miles apologetically.
‘You couldn’t make it thirteen and a half?’ asked Flora. ‘I’ll probably have to pay back my grant.’ Then, shaken out of her habitual cool, added, ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am.’
So were the men in the orchestra. Even the Celtic Mafia charged round in jubilation saying, ‘She’s got the job, she’s got the job.’
Abby was jubilant, too, because she’d set the thing up.
‘I’ve organized chilled French champagne, Scotch salmon, alligator pears and fresh berries,’ she told Marcus and Flora, ‘We’ll have a picnic by the lake and then we’ll go and look at the cottage.’
In the third week in June, Abby, Marcus and Flora moved into Woodbine Cottage which lurked like the palest red fox cub, peering out of its woodland undergrowth. It was situated two hundred and fifty yards from the lake, up a rough track, which would become a running stream in wet weather. They would have difficulty getting out if it snowed, but at least they wouldn’t be gawped at by locals or tourists wandering round the lake.
The cottage itself was early nineteenth century and quite enchanting. Pale pink roses arched over the rickety front gate, pink geraniums in pots leant out of every window and a stream hurtled under the mossy flagstones that led up to the pale green front door. Clematis, white roses and honeysuckle swarmed up the soft red walls. The front garden was crowded with pinks, snapdragons and tall crimson hollyhocks. Behind the cottage a lawn bounded by ancient apple trees sloped up into soaring woods which protected the cottage from north and east winds. Beyond the front gate, red and white cows grazed in a wild flower meadow rising gently to poplars on the horizon.
‘You won’t get much sun until midday,’ the owner, a sweet widow, told them apologetically.
‘Suits us,’ said Flora, ‘we’re not early risers.’
‘You will be now you’ve joined the RSO,’ said Abby firmly.
Inside, the cottage, to Abby’s delight, had adequate plumbing, a modern kitchen with a Cotswold stone floor and a big scrubbed table. The drawing-room had a huge mirror in which she could practise conducting, and plenty of shelves for scores and books. Upstairs were two largish bedrooms looking over the meadow, a bathroom and an attic bedroom under the eaves.
Marcus was worried the place was so isolated. With every move he had to find a doctor and locate the nearest casualty department. He would have to make doubly sure that he always had spare inhalers and a pre-packed syringe to inject himself.
But the real plus was that, under a spreading chestnut tree, in the top left-hand corner of the back garden, had been built a studio. This had a shower, a 100, a fridge in which he could put his pillows to kill the dust mites, plenty of room for a bed and the Steinway on which he had just managed to keep up the payments.
‘My late husband was a sculptor, who liked to work at night,’ the sweet widow told Marcus, ‘I like to think of another artist living here.’
With a studio, Marcus could also take in private pupils without bothering the others, and retreat to avoid the dust and fluff bound to be created by Abby’s and Flora’s sloppy housework and the two black-and-white kitten brothers, Sibelius and Scriabin, which Abby had rushed off and acquired from the nearest rescue kennels the moment they moved in.
‘Two for joy, they’re just like magpies,’ said Flora in ecstasy, as the kittens with thunderous purring buried their faces in a plate of boiled chicken.
‘Can you imagine poor Schubert moving twenty-four times. I’m exhausted after a day of it,’ added Flora.
There was still masses of sorting out, but she wandered off to the kitchen returning with a bottle of Moët and three glasses. Abby raised a disapproving eyebrow. It was only three o’clock.
‘I’m not going to make a habit of it,’ said Flora airily, ‘but it is a special day.’
‘We are going to introduce a new regime,’ insisted Abby virtuously, ‘no pop music, no TV, we’ll go for long walks, read aloud and discuss music and ideas in the evening.’
‘No television, that’s a bit steep,’ cried Flora in alarm. ‘What about Men Behaving Badly, Blind Date, and Keeping Up Appearances?’
‘You’ll soon get used to it.’ Abby raised her glass. ‘To us.’
‘We better start making our own wine,’ muttered Flora. ‘Go and jump on a few elderberries, Marcus.’
‘And make our own amusements,’ said Marcus, and he and Flora sat down to bash out a four-handed version of Schubert’s Marche Militaire on the ancient upright in the drawing-room.
‘Abby’s clearly going to take rural life very seriously,’ giggled Flora. ‘She’s already bought galoshes, gloves, a rain hat and a Dryzabone for country walks.’
‘She can count me out,’ sighed Marcus, ‘I can’t do more than forty yards at the moment.’
Wandering out into the back garden, clutching a still purring Scriabin, the browning lawn scratching her bare feet like horsehair, Abby jumped as she heard the glorious horn call from Don Juan echoing through the woods. For a second she thought the others, bored of duets, had put on a record. But no-one could mistake that radiance and clarity. It was Viking practising for next week’s concert. There it was again, hardly muffled by the leaves.
The Celtic Mafia’s Bordello, rented so they could play music and hell-raise as loudly as they liked, lay on the other side of the lake. Perhaps they could start giving Woodbine Cottage dinner parties round the big kitchen table. Was Viking putting out signals playing Don Juan on her first day? Perhaps he didn’t know she had moved in. She must get some change of address cards printed, she thought with a shiver of excitement.
That night she fell asleep instantly for the first time in months, soothed by the sound of the stream under her window rushing down to join the lake.
Returning to work after her three weeks’ break was like going back to prison. Miles and Lionel, who’d chiefly employed Flora to put her nose out of joint, couldn’t wait to break the news of her appointment.
‘We would have waited for you to OK her,’ said Miles smugly, ‘but she’s so talented, we decided to snap her up.’
‘The Academy says she’s got a fantastic voice,’ even Lionel was looking quite moony, ‘which is useful if we ever need an understudy.’
‘What’s her name?’ Abby was idly flipping through her post.
‘Flora Seymour,’ Miles laughed heartily. ‘We all want to see more of Flora.’
‘Georgie Maguire’s daughter,’ said Abby, opening a typed envelope with a London postmark.
‘I said Seymour not Maguire.’
‘Still Georgie’s daughter.’
‘You sure you’ve got the right girl?’
‘Quite,’ said Abby with a malicious smile. ‘Flora and I were at the Academy together. She auditioned while I was away on vacation, right? So I couldn’t be accused of bias. She’s living in the cottage I’ve bought by the lake.’
‘
Bought a cottage,’ spluttered Lionel. ‘You’re planning a long stay with the RSO?’
‘Sure am,’ crowed Abby. ‘Get a look of this.’
It was confirmation from Howie Denston that Megagram wanted to record all Fanny Mendelssohn’s music and all four of Winifred Trapp’s Harp Concertos with Abby and the RSO.
‘Who’s Winifred Trapp?’ asked Miles scornfully.
‘It’s pronounced Vinifred,’ said Abby rudely. ‘She’s a terrific nineteenth-century Swiss composer. She had to stop home and care for her elderly parents, so her oeuvre was only performed by family and friends, which meant she used a very small orchestra, which means Jackboot Hungerford can cut down on extras. I discovered her when I was living with Rodney in Lucerne. She makes marvellous use of yodelling and cowbells.’
‘Yet another hall-emptier,’ snapped Miles, but even he couldn’t argue with a fat record contract.
Wandering back to her dressing-room, Abby bumped into Viking and her heart stopped. His lean normally pale face was tanned a warm gold. Sunbathing with his hair drenched in lemon juice had turned it nearly white. He was wearing a sea-green polo shirt and dirty white shorts.
Abby couldn’t resist telling him she had heard him last night.
Viking looked alarmed.
‘Don’t tell anyone you heard me practising – it’s terrible for my image.’
On an ego trip, Abby had to break the news about Winifred Trapp and Fanny Mendelssohn.
‘It’s nearly the hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Fanny’s death.’
‘Fanniversary,’ Viking grinned broadly.
‘Must you trivialize everything?’
‘I have a theory about obscure repertoire,’ said Viking, ‘If it’s onplayed, there’s very good reason. It’s either onplayable or onotterably bad. If you record it, however, you get a reputation for brilliance and innovation because there’s nothing to compare it with.’
‘You would have an utterly defeatist attitude.’ Abby flounced off in a fury.
To save money, it was decided to run a joint Mendelssohn and Trapp series in the late autumn, then Megagram could perhaps be leant on to pay for the rehearsals. There was just time to slot this change of repertoire into next season’s smart brochure, which had a picture of Abby on the front.
George had also effected a saving of thirty thousand pounds a year by sacking the marketing manager, who’d kept coming up with fatuous ideas about laser beams and back projections and the orchestra playing in their national costumes to prove how international they were.
Abby returned from her holiday to find Clarissa had left as threatened – not to London – but to join Hugo and the CCO. Abby felt betrayed and as though she had lost an ally. But she wasted no time in bringing in a new Principal Cellist, called Dimitri, who refused to be parted from his cello because it was the only possession he had managed to smuggle out of a Russian Labour Camp. Speaking precious little English he had difficulty getting a job and was as thin as a skeleton. But after spending a couple of nights in the attic bedroom at Woodbine Cottage and playing chamber music with Flora and Marcus, he soon regained his confidence. Although he cried everytime the orchestra played The Great Gate of Kiev, he added wonderful gravitas and a great deep Russian sound to the cello section. As a result, Dimitri adored Abby and was horrified by the orchestra’s deep disrespect for her.
Despite Miles’s and Lionel’s belief that it would put Abby’s nose out of joint to employ Flora, Abby liked pretty women in the orchestra, as long as they played well. She had therefore spiced up the back of the violins with an enchanting Japanese girl called Noriko. Noriko couldn’t pronounce her ‘L’s and kept everyone in stitches ordering River and Bacon at the Shaven Crown and suggesting the Steel Elf, who was having trouble paying her mortgage since Viking moved out, ‘should take in a roger’.
Viking and Juno were both too proud to make it up, but romance-watchers had noticed Juno definitely making big bluey-green eyes at George Hungerford.
‘That would be a dangerous liaison,’ said Dixie gloomily, ‘she would have us all out in a trice.’
Flora’s first rehearsal with the RSO at the beginning of July was greeted with a chorus of wolf-whistles. She had tied back her newly washed hair with a grey ribbon, she wore no make-up on her gold freckled skin. Her legs in grey linen shorts were almost chunky. But there was an undeniable sexuality about her, perhaps because she was totally lacking in new-girl nerves. Used to playing solo at college, she attacked every piece with vigour, and if she came in too early, or played a wrong note, she burst out laughing, thus giving confidence to other newcomers like Jenny and Noriko who were too shy of scorn even to practise in public.
Flora took Foxie, her puppet-fox mascot, everywhere with her, reducing the nearby players to fits of giggles by making him conduct with her pencil, or putting his paws over his ears and shaking his head at moments of discord or stress. Flora also chattered to everyone and was absurdly generous.
In her second week when they were waiting for Abby who’d been delayed by some management wrangle, Flora plied her own section and the surrounding players with lemon sherbets. They were about to rehearse the Valse des Fleurs, which required a harpist, and even contained an important harp cadenza.
Harpists are often regarded as something of a joke in orchestras. But, if the RSO laughed at Miss Parrott, they also loved and admired her. A middle-aged spinster with piled-up strawberry-pink hair, she always wore high heels and very bright colours: ‘If you’re in the shop window for a long tayme you tend to fade so Ay like to look colourful,’ and rose above the orchestra as dignified as her gold harp, which she plucked at with long red fingers.
Miss Parrott looked on and missed nothing, passing the time when she wasn’t playing knitting brightly coloured scarves for her favourites in the orchestra. Blue and Viking had two each. She always had a beta blocker and a glass of sherry before concerts, and liked to play her harp beside the flutes, complaining bitterly if ever she were relegated to the back of the Second Violins.
Although Miss Parrott claimed: ‘My feet are danglin’ from the shelf,’ she had no shortage of male admirers to mend plugs and tyres for her and carry her harp in and out of concert halls. Finally she was an inveterate moonlighter and, that very evening, after she’d dispatched Valse des Fleurs in the first half at Rutminster, would be belting over to Cotchester to play Debussy’s Dances Sacres et Profanes with the CCO.
Having finished her lemon sherbet, she asked Flora if she could have another one.
‘Goodness, Miss Parrott,’ piped up Cherub, ‘you’ve got a big suck.’
‘If you were ten years older, and Ay were ten years younger, Ay’d show you, young man,’ said Miss Parrott calmly.
Shouts of laughter greeted this as poor Cherub went as red as his bass drum.
As a new girl, Flora had been placed behind Fat Isobel, beside Militant Moll and in front of Juno and Hilary, none of whom were at all enthusiastic about her arrival.
Viking, who usually claimed droit de seigneur over any pretty girl who joined the orchestra, had noticed Flora’s bitten nails at the audition and the occasional flicker of desolation on her face, and didn’t believe she was as bonny and blithe as she appeared.
Writing: ‘Will you have a drink with me after this?’ on a paper dart, he chucked it in her direction.
Alas, the dart flew over Flora’s head and fluttered down onto the massive bosom of Fat Isobel who, still disappointed at being passed up during Viking’s erotic bonanza on the bus to Starhampton, swung round nodding frantically in acceptance.
‘Jesus, I’ll have to empty Oddbins,’ muttered an appalled Viking.
‘Isobel’s got lovely skin,’ protested Miss Parrott kindly.
‘Pity there’s so much of it,’ sighed Viking.
The rest of the Celtic Mafia were still crying with laughter when Abby arrived.
‘Quiet please, let’s get started,’ she said briskly. ‘Where are Clare and Dixie?’
‘Still
in the pub,’ said Juno primly.
‘Shall I go and get them?’ piped up Flora eager to escape for a quick one.
‘Noriko can go,’ said Abby, adding pointedly, ‘she doesn’t drink.’
She couldn’t help feeling wildly jealous that Flora had been accepted so easily and had this gift of making people love her. Everyone wanted to play chamber music with her, the telephone rang the whole time at the cottage, her pigeon hole at H.P. Hall was filled with notes.
I must start playing the violin again, thought Abby fretfully, so people want to play chamber music with me.
‘It’s only because Flora’s new,’ Abby overheard Juno saying bitchily to Hilary. ‘They’ll soon get bored of her.’
THIRTY-ONE
Rutminster was gripped by a heatwave. Plans for holding Piggy Parker’s sixtieth-birthday concert inside or providing the orchestra with a canopy were shelved as the ground cracked, the huge domed trees in the grounds of Rutminster Towers shed their first yellow leaves and Mrs Parker repeatedly cursed her mother for conceiving her in a Ramsgate boarding-house in October rather than in September – which meant her birthday fell at the end of July, by which time the roses had gone over.
Short of glueing back every petal, the only answer was to bus in furiously clashing bedding plants from Parker’s Horticultural Emporium. Lorry-loads of electric-blue hydrangeas and scarlet petunias were racing armies of caterers up the drive, as the orchestra struggled in for an early rehearsal and to check the timing of the fireworks in William Tell, before the heat became too punishing.
Rutminster Towers itself stood in all its neo-Gothic glory, surrounded by a formal garden and parkland, overlooking the River Fleet. A platform for orchestra and choir had been set up on the river’s edge. Bronzed workmen putting up a large red-and-white striped VIP tent eyed Flora as she paddled and splashed water over a panting Mr Nugent.
Mrs Parker was frantic everything should go well. As a year ago, a pleasure launch of Hoorays playing pop music and drunkenly yelling ‘Hellair’ had disrupted Panis Angelicus, she was personally prepared to dam the river with her vast bulk to stop anyone sailing upstream during the concert.
