Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Can’t have you catching cold,’ said Carmine and, as swearing and panting they all pushed the coach, she felt his hand over hers.

  ‘I may be gone some time,’ said Randy, sliding off to have a pee.

  Two hours and eight miles later, the coach descended into Cotchester to find completely clear roads, starry skies, and the great cathedral floodlit.

  ‘They’d never have believed us if we hadn’t got through,’ said Abby who’d abandoned her car.

  Her orchestra, in various states of hypothermia and mutiny, gazed at her stonily. They hadn’t even the heart to boo as they passed a window in the High Street, entirely devoted to Dame Edith and the CCO’s latest recording of the Christmas Oratorio, or at huge posters everywhere advertising ‘Dame Hermione Sings Messiah’, in huge letters, with the other soloists and the RSO in tiny print underneath. Inside the packed cathedral, lit by hundreds of candles, a huge Christmas tree and television lights, the four soloists, choir, crews and audience were raring to go.

  There was no time for a rehearsal. Abby went straight up onto the rostrum to explain what had happened.

  ‘We came through a white hell, OK? The orchestra are frozen. They’re just having something hot to eat, I hope you’ll bear with us.’

  The audience were more than happy to do so, but not Dame Hermione. She was the one who kept people waiting. As the harpsichordist had already arrived from London, Hermione had been about to offer the audience an impromptu concert of her latest album, Soothe the Sad Heart, which with the television coverage would have sold an extra fifty thousand copies over Christmas.

  She had upset the other three soloists by her histrionics about catching cold and her demands. Poor Alphonso, the twenty-five-stone Italian tenor, was forced to have blue drops put in his eyes, and his bald patch blacked out by the make-up girls in a howling draught because Dame Hermione had commandeered the entire vestry as a dressing-room.

  Fortunately George Hungerford had missed all these hysterics because he had arrived only five minutes before the orchestra, so the first thing he heard was Dame Hermione’s deep voice saying. ‘Take me to the fans.’

  The first thing Dame Hermione heard was George telling Miles that he’d have his ‘goots for garters’ if the orchestra didn’t turn up.

  Surrounded by twenty blow heaters, Dame Hermione shivered from excitement rather than cold. She adored masterful men.

  Meanwhile Steve Smithson charged around with his thermometer, complaining the cathedral was too cold, and that there was no proper band room, since Dame Hermione had hogged all the space.

  Fortified by a glass of red wine each, paid for by Abby, and pizzas in the Bar Sinister opposite, the orchestra had perked up enough to engage in the usual argy-bargy with the television crews. There was simply not enough room on the stage to accommodate Fat Isobel and Fat Alphonso and the harpsichord, let alone having cables to trip over, mikes up your nose, lights shining in your eyes, and cameramen bossily shoving chairs and music-stands aside to give them a clear camera angle on Dame Hermione.

  A BBC minion, in a fake fur coat and strawberry-pink trousers, who looked as though he ate choirboys for breakfast, sidled up to handsome Randy as he blew a few testing blasts on his trumpet.

  ‘Hi, Clark Gable, you playing the big solo?’

  ‘No, him,’ Randy jerked his sleek sandy head in Carmine’s direction.

  ‘Shame, you’re so much more – ‘the BBC minion ran his eyes over Randy’s body – ‘photogenic, particularly when you smile.’

  ‘Carmine wouldn’t like it very much.’

  ‘We’ll have to use green face powder to take his colour down. What are you doing after the show?’

  ‘Your admirer’s got an admirer,’ giggled Clare.

  ‘Yes, I’ve lucked out there,’ sighed Candy, tightening her G-string.

  ‘There’s absolutely no way I’m swapping seats with Moll – ‘Flora was now telling the BBC minion – ‘even to appear on television. Moll would kill me.’

  On cue, Moll rushed up in a state of chunter.

  ‘There are no ladies’ toilets, so I had to squat in the gents, and someone’s written: “RSO stands for Really Shitty Orchestra” on the wall. It’s not funny, Flora. You’re to cross it out in the interval,’ she shouted to a cringing Ninion.

  On came Julian, smiling broadly, fiddle aloft to relieved applause, and some barracking from the gallery.

  ‘Take off those dark glasses, deary,’ urged the BBC minion. ‘Looks a bit camp.’ Then, as Julian lowered them a fraction showing his red-albino eyes, said, ‘well, perhaps not.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s cold,’ said Bill Thackery looking at the hundreds of candles flickering in the draught.

  A rustle of excitement and some cheering greeted Abby and the soloists. Dame Hermione, diamonds sparkling in the camera lights, was clad from top to toe in Rannaldini’s sleek, dark Christmas mink.

  ‘Ring up Animal Rights at once,’ snarled Flora.

  Hermione had no competition from the contralto who looked and sang like a sheep and was eight months’ pregnant.

  Having bowed to the audience, Abby thanked them once more for being so patient.

  ‘And I just wanna tell you guys,’ she hissed at the orchestra, ‘that the entire CCO including Hugo, are up in the gallery, waiting to boo, so flaming well play out of your boots, and don’t let the soloists drag.’

  This had the desired effect. The RSO played with that brilliance and attack often engendered by rage and irritation, and, even without a rehearsal, the Cotchester Choir were infinitely superior to Peggy Parker’s screeching seagulls. Despite the icy cold of the cathedral, the sopranos led by Dame Edith’s helpmate, Monica Baddingham, had absolutely no difficulty in hitting Top A as they romped through the ‘Glory of the Lord’.

  Not wanting to bump into any of his father’s friends, Marcus crept into the concert after the overture. Returning to Cotchester, which was only a few miles from his home in Penscombe, made him feel desperately homesick.

  The great cathedral was as filled with memories as shadows. His father had always read the lesson at Midnight Mass, and despite being divorced had managed to have his second marriage to Taggie there, much to the rage of the bishop. It had snowed that day too, and Marcus remembered his desolation as a young boy as his father and his ravishing new stepmother took off by helicopter into the blizzard.

  Alphonso, the hugely fat tenor, seemed to be singing. ‘Comfort ye, comfort ye,’ directly to him.

  Marcus also noticed, because of a shortage of basses, George Hungerford had joined the choir and could be heard belting out, ‘Oonto Oos a Boy is Born’ in true Hoodersfield fashion. Marcus thought how attractive George was, so aggressively macho, compared to the bobbing Adam’s apples and waggling beards around him.

  George, in fact, was very happy. That very afternoon the Ministry of the Environment had overturned Rutminster District Council’s decision and given him planning permission to cover Cowslip Hill with houses. Now he wouldn’t have to revert to his contingency plan of letting New Age Travellers onto the site at the dead of night, which normally melted any opposition.

  His orchestra were also playing champion, he couldn’t have borne it if they’d let him down in front of Dame Hermione, who’d been all he’d ever dreamt of and had asked him up for a night-cap in the Rupert of the Rhine Suite at the Cotchester Hilton after the après-concert party.

  The dazzling overhead lights gave a blond halo to Hermione’s glossy brown curls. Monocles glinted in the eyes of a thousand colonels and George caught his breath as she slithered out of her sleek, dark fur to reveal shoulders as smooth and white as sand dunes, rising out of a deep purple velvet dress. Looking up at the monitor, George longed to kiss the blue hollows made by her collar bones, the hairs rose at the back of his neck at the unbearable purity of her voice: ‘There were shepherds abiding in the fields.’

  Because of the late start and the shortage of lavatories, it was decided to dispense with the first interva
l which had many of the RSO and the elderly audience crossing their legs in agony. Not so the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra in the gallery, who’d all been to a Christmas party before the concert and who kept slipping in and out with a great banging of doors throughout the second half. In delight, they also counted the number of people reading their programmes or plaques on the wall, or gently snoozing, until the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ and a good shout woke everyone up.

  Moving her body like a rock star in her dark blue suit, Abby abandoned her stick and directed the orchestra and choir with clenched fists and power salutes. Backed up by Davie going berserk on his drums and by Barry and his basses, all of whom knew how to swing it, her interpretation was gloriously exhilarating, and made the lovely descending chorale of ‘The Kingdom of this World’ all the more moving, leaving the audience reeling.

  Now it was time for the Bishop of Cotchester to give his little sermon, working in Honesty Insurance, whose staff had been waving banners of the logo like football supporters every time the cameras panned to the audience.

  ‘Awfully chic to match his ring to Dame Hermione’s dress,’ whispered Nellie, as exuding gravitas and pomposity the Bishop mounted the rostrum.

  ‘If we behave ourselves on this earth,’ he thundered, glaring at the CCO up in the gallery, who were guilty of even higher jinks than their Rutminster rivals, ‘it is an insurance against our going to hell.’

  He then carried on, to the rippling snoring counterpoint of some drunk in the gallery, to say people should be honest in their deeds and in their words, and repeated that Honesty was the best Policy, so many times that Randy, handing his hip-flask down to Jerry the Joker, muttered that the old bugger must be getting a bloody good whack of free pension for his services. Glancing round apprehensively to see if George had overheard, Jerry was glad to see George’s anger was entirely focused on Flora, who had unearthed Foxie from under her chair and was sending Clare and Candy into fits by putting his paws over his furry ears to blot out the Bishop’s jawing.

  The drunk was snoring even louder.

  ‘Dunno whether to put a pillow over his face or shoot him,’ said Randy, passing his hip-flask to Davie Buckle who was still recovering from his frenzied activity in the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’.

  ‘Shoot him and the Bishop,’ said Davie.

  In fact the Bishop rabbited on for so long that Abby nodded to Julian to start tuning up. This was the moment the audience had been waiting for: the re-run of the single that had topped the pop charts, and sold over a million copies: ‘Hermione Sings Redeemer’.

  Off slithered the dark fur again as Hermione rose to her feet. What a trim waist beneath those wonderful knockers, thought George, his brain misting over.

  Aware that the Bishop had made them even later, Abby kept the strings and the bassoons moving on in the opening bars. But there was no way Hermione was going to be hurried.

  Eyes widened, hands clasped, she smiled angelically at her swooning public.

  ‘I know that my Redeemer leeveth,’ rang out joyfully on the arctic, uncentrally heated air, and the audience burst into a round of applause as if they were listening to Frank Sinatra.

  Hermione put up a white hand to hush them: ‘Thank you, thank you, good people of Cotchester. I’m so happy to be in your lovely city again. From the beginning, Abigail.’

  Abby gritted her teeth.

  Hermione’s voice could crack glasses. Unfortunately this second time around it woke up the drunk in the gallery, who, taking a swig from his bottle of Southern Comfort decided to sing along.

  ‘I know that moy Redeemer leeeeeveth,’ he caterwauled, wickedly mimicking Hermione, as he clasped his hands, composed his slack mouth in a perfect O, lengthened all his Es, and opened his bloodshot little eyes as far as they would go.

  ‘Oh bliss, there is a God,’ muttered Flora.

  ‘And though worms deestroy theese body,’ sang Hermione, who’d gone bright red from embarrassment and trying to drown him.

  ‘And though worms deestroy theeese bod-ee,’ quavered the drunk, to a crescendo of furious hissing from a thousand apoplectic colonels. (Gentlemen should have been allowed to wear swords.)

  Unfortunately Hermione had many bars of rest in the aria for the drunk to fill in.

  ‘I know,’ he began again, missing top E with a mighty screech.

  Monica Baddingham, in the choir, strained her eyes to see if – horrors – he was one of Dame Edith’s musicians in disguise.

  Looking down, Abby saw that the RSO had corpsed. Neither Jerry the Joker, nor Solemn Steve could keep their lips round their reeds. The strings, even Julian, were hunched over their music, to hide their frantically shaking shoulders. Randy, Carmine and Davie were going even redder in the face trying not to laugh, Flora wasn’t even trying. Foxie was conducting again, with gracious sweeps and bows to Candy and Clare who were stuffing handkerchiefs into their mouths, and to Fat Isobel who was clutching her massive sides.

  I’ll kill that drunk and that minx after the concert, raged George. Hemmed in by beards and Adam’s apples he was in anguish.

  ‘In my flesh shall I see God,’ screeched the drunk, taking another swig. Up in the gallery the CCO were in ecstasy.

  ‘Throw him out,’ shouted their First Bassoon.

  ‘Yesh, throw him out,’ agreed the Second Horn.

  ‘No,’ yelled the First Trumpet, who’d drunk even more whisky. ‘Throw him down, he might kill a fiddler.’

  A gale of laughter swept the gallery.

  Hugo, however, was watching Abby’s rigid shoulders and her clenched fist on her baton.

  ‘Look at L’Appassionata,’ he murmured to his First Horn, ‘she’s going to flip.’

  As Hermione hit top G with an almighty squawk, George left his seat, punching fellow basses out of the way, and Abby stopped the orchestra and swung round.

  The fury in her blazing yellow eyes was so palpable, many of the audience felt they had been burnt by lightning and afterwards swore that all the candles round the cathedral dimmed before flickering back into life.

  ‘Just pack it in, right,’ yelled Abby.

  ‘And though worms deestroy theese body,’ warbled the drunk, waving his bottle at her.

  Abby’s voice rose: ‘I said pack it in. We’ve driven through snow and blizzard this evening to play to you, and Dame Hermione and the other soloists have flown thousands of miles to sing. If you don’t get that asshole out of here we won’t play another note.’

  There was a stunned, appalled pause, as a thousand deaf-aids were switched up to discover if they had heard right.

  Then the lurking Press went beserk, simultaneously trying to photograph Abby and Hermione and the drunk as he was noisily evicted.

  Dame Hermione, who knew how to milk a situation, cast down her eyes. Abby reached across the pregnant alto and put a comforting hand on her white shaking shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, let’s do it again. We’ll skip the introduction, five bars after eleven, and one—’

  Hermione rose to the occasion, a woman of sorrows, eyes brimming with tears, moved for once by genuine grief at her own humiliation. At the end the audience cheered her to the shadowy rafters.

  As she lumbered off the stage down into the side-aisle, one of her high heels fell down the soi-disant central-heating grill, depositing her into the waiting arms of George Hungerford. Her breasts were so soft, it was like catching a giant pillow.

  ‘Dame Hermione, I’m bluddy proud of you,’ said George, offering her the remains of Randy’s hip-flask.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The concert was followed by a splendid party at Dame Edith’s house in the Close. Normally the musicians would have been excluded from such a bash, but Dame Edith, who’d always voted Labour, felt that after such a polar trek, they deserved a treat. The coaches would leave in half an hour, which gave everyone time for a bite and several drinks. A route avoiding snow had been charted. They’d be home by two.

  Dame Edith lived in a shabbily beautiful Jacobean h
ouse on lots of floors, using all her awards as doorstops. The dark William Morris walls were covered with sixty years of musical mementoes. Monica Baddingham had added her Stubbs, her Herrings, her sporting prints, her embroidered cushions to the household, and three yellow labrador bitches who had greatly enhanced the life of Tippett, Dame Edith’s pug.

  Tippett now sat snuffling beside Dame Edith, who had changed into a burgundy-red smoking-jacket to welcome her guests with a slap on the back.

  ‘Well done, splendid concert, great success. Coats upstairs, booze to the left, coq au vin and bombe surprise in the kitchen. Monica made them —’ she smiled fondly at Lady Baddingham, who was brandishing champagne bottles – ‘so they must be bloody good.’

  ‘Do you think they both sleep in here?’ panted Flora as she plonked her viola case and her new Louis Vuitton on Edith’s massive four-poster.

  ‘I guess so,’ Marcus blushed slightly. ‘The four dog-baskets are all in here.’

  ‘Golly,’ giggled Flora, ‘we are seeing life. That Augustus John must be of Edith when she was a young boy. D’you think Abby’s going to be in awful trouble over that drunk?’

  ‘I thought she was wonderful,’ said Marcus. ‘Christ knows where it would have ended if she hadn’t gone ballistic.’

  Downstairs Dame Edith was entirely in agreement.

  ‘Can’t think why everyone’s making such a fuss,’ she was telling a tight-lipped Miles, the Bishop and a hovering Gwynneth and Gilbert, who were already filling their faces from overloaded plates.

  ‘Done just the same myself,’ continued Edith, flicking cigar ash into the fire. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with the word “asshole”?’

  Miles blanched.

  ‘In a House of God, Edith?’ asked the Bishop plaintively.

  ‘Very appropriate,’ said Edith with a guffaw. ‘Assholes seem to be the only thing you bishops are interested in these days, judging by the papers.’

  The Bishop turned as purple as the ring on his cherished white hand, but being a very greedy man, he was not prepared to storm out until he’d dined, so merely satisfied himself with: ‘You go too far, Edith.’