by Jilly Cooper
Dropping into the valley, they entered thick woods. Through the first faint blur of hawthorn and larch, gleamed a lake, reminding Abby of Lucerne and the ghost horn player. Then she jumped at the sight of her own photograph smouldering down from a large oak tree. From then on, there were ‘L’Appassionata’ posters everywhere.
‘Oh Marcus,’ her voice quivered, ‘I feel as if I’m coming home.’
Even though the concert wasn’t until the following night, Rutminster swarmed with Press. Megagram, Abby’s record producers, were reissuing all her old records and had spent a lot of money promoting the concert. The tickets could have been sold five times over. Big screens had been put up in the park, so disappointed punters could watch from outside for a tenner.
Double cherries lining the path up to H.P. Hall were still in bud.
‘We thought of forcing them out with a blowlamp in your honour,’ said Mark Carling, the extremely harassed managing director of the Rutminster Symphony Orchestra who came rushing out to shake Abby’s hand.
He had thinning mousy hair, and tired red-rimmed eyes peering furtively through granny spectacles which seemed too small for his big, worried face. Desperately shy, he found the social side of running an orchestra a torment.
‘I’m in the middle of a rather sticky conversation with the Arts Council, who tend to call the shots. I hope you’ll forgive me, if my secretary, Miss Priddock, shows you round. Miss Priddock’s very much the power behind the throne,’ he said, scuttling off in relief.
Miss Priddock had once been pretty and for a brief period Sir Rodney’s. Plump, mono-bosomed and given to pussy-cat bows, she looked as though she pulled on her blue-rinsed hair like a tea cosy each morning. She lived in the Close with John Drummond, a large, self-important black cat with a white shirt-front which made him look as if he were wearing tails. Drummond, who accompanied Miss Priddock to work and doubled up as office mouser, was known as the ‘purr behind the throne’.
Seeing the imperceptible toss of Abby’s head that she was being abandoned to a secretary, Miss Priddock mentally branded Abby ‘a madam’ and said they had never had a concert like this before. Poor Mr Carling was run off his feet.
‘He’s lucky to have you,’ said Marcus, sensing ruffled feathers. ‘You must be seriously busy.’
‘I deal with everything,’ said Miss Priddock, ushering them into a palatial foyer, whose peeling burnt-sienna walls were almost entirely hidden by L’Appassionata publicity material.
‘Light bulbs, blocked toilets, computers breaking down,’ she went on, ‘they run to me. I’m also Clare Rayner to the entire orchestra. If they’re homesick, got marital problems, can’t pay their mortgage or the gas bill, they end up in my office. I can’t do much, but I’m a good listener.’
And a conceited old bag, thought Abby, as led by John Drummond, his black tail erect, Miss Priddock swept them along the inevitable labyrinths where under naked light bulbs, groups of musicians pretended not to stare.
‘This is the band room,’ added Miss Priddock, ‘where the musicians relax, and this is the hospitality room where we entertain sponsors and friends of the orchestra.’
‘And this is the instrument room.’ Flinging open the door, Miss Priddock surprised a couple in flagrante. Abby caught a quick glimpse of a girl spread-eagled naked on the glockenspiel, her long silver-blond hair trailing like a River Fleet willow. Beside her stood an equally blond man with wicked slitty dark eyes and broad bare shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Unbuttoning his jeans with one hand, he had the other rammed between the girl’s legs.
Miss Priddock didn’t turn a blue-rinsed hair.
‘Buck up, Viking,’ she said briskly, ‘rehearsal begins in ten minutes,’ and almost dotingly closed the door.
‘Who was that?’ asked Abby, flabbergasted.
‘Viking O’Neill, First Horn and Juno Meadows, Second Flute.’
‘Don’t musicians get fired for that kind of behaviour?’
‘Not Viking,’ said Miss Priddock firmly.
‘He’s got two horrendous horn solos in Oberon and Ein Heldenleben,’ said Abby. ‘I hope he’s up to it.’
‘Viking’s up to everything,’ said Miss Priddock skittishly. ‘The platform’s through that door.’
With a shiver of excitement, Abby could see the stage set up with chairs and music-stands, and hear the glorious heady din of musicians all practising different passages from the Oberon overture.
‘And here’s your dressing-room. It’s Sir Rodney’s normally, but he vacates it for guest conductors.’
On a low marble table, Abby was touched to find a huge bunch of white hyacinths and narcissi and a note from Rodney telling her not to seduce all his orchestra before he saw her tomorrow night.
The room, befitting him, had an extremely comfortable double bed, only thinly disguised as a sofa by a few embroidered cushions, a massive bath, a buckling wine rack, a store cupboard filled with large glasses, tumblers, tins of caviar, foie gras and artichoke hearts. On the walls were photographs of Gisela and Shosty outside Flasher’s Folly, of Rodney’s late wife playing in her nightie and of Rodney and the orchestra out in the park under the turning trees on the occasion of his seventy-fifth birthday. In the wardrobe, Abby found a set of his tails and breathed in a waft of English Fern.
‘Oh, I wish he were here.’
Miss Priddock’s face softened.
‘We all do. I’m afraid Lionel Fielding, our leader, is away guesting with some northern orchestra,’ she gave a more-fool-them sniff. ‘But his co-leader,’ the warmth returned to Miss Priddock’s voice, ‘a most delightful French Canadian, Hugo de Ginèstre, will do everything to smooth your path.’
Hugo was very smooth, as he swept in, all fire and flourish, brandishing his bow like d’Artagnan. Like d’Artagnan, too, he had a glossy moustache, a neat beard, cavalier curls just beginning to recede from a noble forehead, and big soulful dark eyes, which kept suddenly twinkling with merriment. The Musketeer image was further accentuated by a dark brown velvet jacket and a floppy white silk shirt, tucked into black cords which were, in turn, tucked into boots.
Kissing Abby’s hand and then both her cheeks, he said how honoured the RSO were to welcome such a great musician.
Marcus, who was feeling exhausted and spare-prickish, looked at his watch.
‘I’ll take what you don’t need and check in at the Old Bell,’ he said.
‘Don’t be long, I need you — ’ suddenly Abby looked vulnerable, and Marcus’s heart leapt then fell as she added — ‘to help me if I get stuck.’
‘Courage, mon enfant,’ said Hugo, as he led her into the auditorium.
Gripping the brass rail of the rostrum to disguise her shaking hands, Abby looked down at the RSO spread out before her. Many of them were paunchy, most of them pale and drawn, after a long winter of late nights, long hours’ teaching, playing other dates to make ends meet, not seeing the sun and gazing at black dots.
A handful were brown from skiing, some of the girls were young and very pretty, the men handsome, but on the whole they needed an iron over their faces and their clothes. Their gleaming instruments — gold, silver, conker-brown, burnt-umber and black — looked in much better shape. But together, they had the power of a wolf-pack. They looked at Abby curiously but coolly, poised to co-operate or gang up.
Then Abby smiled.
‘It’s great to be here with you guys. Today we’ll concentrate on Oberon and Ein Heldenleben.’
By ill luck, Oberon would start with a solo from the First Horn, who was now dressed in black jeans and a ‘Spoilt Bastard’ T-shirt, and laughing his head off. Blushing, Abby looked up at him and nodded. Viking sat there, his horn to his mouth, but not making any sound. Abby nodded again. ‘When you’re ready, First Horn.’
‘I’m ready, Maestro.’
There was another long, agonizing pause; the orchestra grinned into their instruments.
‘I think he’s waiting for you to give him the upbeat, Maestro,’ whisper
ed Hugo.
‘Oh shit, I never thought of that.’ Abby whipped her stick up and then down and they were on their way. She was dying of nerves. But expecting one of Rodney’s bimbos (the last one had got lost in the New World), the RSO were staggered how good she was. Thanks to Marcus she was embedded in the music, giving every important cue, detecting wrong notes from the babble of sound. Musicians detest stopping and starting, and Abby luckily also had the ability to shout out or sing instructions on the wing.
Simon Painshaw, First Oboe, had carrot-coloured dreadlocks and screwed up his thin face when he played as though he was drinking vile medicine out of a straw.
‘That was fantastic,’ Abby called to him after a particularly beautiful solo, ‘but three bars after twenty-nine, you should have played A flat.’
Blushing beetroot like an unattractive winter salad at the unaccustomed praise, Simon mumbled that his part said A.
‘Then yours is a misprint.’
The musicians looked at each other in awe.
The brass players, when they got excited, made enough din to strip the rest of the paint off the foyer. Abby managed to shut them up.
‘I gather that the RSO brass section are the wonder of the West Country,’ she beamed across at them. ‘But it would be kinda fun occasionally to hear what the rest of the orchestra can do.’
The brass section shuffled their feet sulkily but they forgave Abby when she overheated, and whipped off her dark blue jersey, mistakenly taking her white T-shirt with it, to display a pair of stunning breasts.
Hugo was also a joy, playing with panache, never taking his soulful dark eyes off her, clapping his hands to shush any chatter, pleased that Abby consulted him throughout.
And the First Horn was more than adequate. After the ridiculously delayed start, Abby nearly dropped her baton, because he played with a radiance and purity completely at variance with his distinctly louche appearance. He was also the most outrageously attractive man Abby had ever seen, lounging high up at the back of the orchestra, his French horn, like the sun in his arms, matching his streaked gold hair. His dark brown eyes seemed permanently narrowed as if he were taking aim before firing one of Cupid’s arrows. He had a pale narrow face darkened by stubble, a snub nose, and his big mocking lips somehow managed to compose themselves round the mouth piece of his instrument This was an eighteenth-century horn with a pretty painted bell made of gold leaf, beaten very thin and giving it enormous range.
He’s the ghost horn player, thought Abby in wonder.
‘You do very well,’ said Hugo, as he and Abby had a cup of tea in the conductor’s room.
‘You gave me so much help,’ said Abby, ‘and the orchestra sure take their lead from you.’
‘And I from you,’ said Hugo, who was having a little bet with himself that it would be under ten seconds.
‘There are some very interesting players,’ mused Abby.
Six seconds, thought Hugo.
‘Particularly First Oboe, and — er — First Horn. A wonderful primitive sound. Why’s he called Viking?’
‘He wore an eyepatch to his audition to hide a black eye given to him by a jealous husband,’ said Hugo, gratified to have won his bet, but disappointed that Abby had reacted like all the rest.
‘When Victor, that’s his real name, first came here,’ he went on, ‘he reminded everyone of a Viking blowing a conch in a flat-bottomed boat before nipping ashore for a spot of rape and pillage.’
‘Does he,’ Abby removed her Earl Grey tea-bag, then added super-casually, ‘have a particular partner?’
‘Well, he’s slept with most of the girls in the orchestra.’ Getting up Hugo tested Rodney’s bed. ‘He only has to say, “Hallo, sweetheart,” in that peat-soft Irish voice to some pretty new cellist. Next minute she’s horizontal in the car-park.
‘Horn players,’ Hugo rearranged the cushions up one end, ‘live on the edge. First Horn and First Oboe are the riskiest instruments to play because they’re so heard and so exposed. Viking’s the hero of the orchestra, because he stands up to visiting conductors and the management.
‘The management, on the other hand, think the sun shines out of Viking’s brass’ — rising from the bed Hugo prowled round the room — ‘because he pulls in the punters. If he isn’t playing, they ask for their money back.’
Hugo opened Rodney’s food cupboard, examining tins and jars with rapt Gallic interest. Abby, who hadn’t had any breakfast, dipped a piece of shortbread in her tea.
‘How old is he?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Same age as me. No disrespect to the RSO, but why hasn’t he been snapped up by one of the London orchestras, or made a fortune as a soloist?’
‘Viking’s lazy and unambitious.’ Squatting down Hugo whistled over the vintages of the wines in the rack. ‘He prefers hell-raising with his friends, they’re known as the Celtic Mafia, and playing football on Sundays. There was a mass walk-out when the management tried to introduce Sunday afternoon concerts.
‘Anyway, why should anyone want to work in London?’ asked Hugo. ‘Have you ever tried carrying a double bass on the tube? You can get to work in ten minutes here and park, and you have a salary even if it’s a pathetic one. You get a chance to rehearse before a concert and the audiences are loyal. I like it when people stop me in Rutminster High Street and say, “That was a great concert, Hugo.” The countryside is marvellous and the cottages are very cheap.’
‘You make it sound so attractive,’ said Abby wistfully.
Hugo laughed — dashing d’Artagnan again.
‘And the pickings are good. There are many, many single women in the country. Others have husbands who go to London in the week.’
‘I don’t approve of married men having affaires, said Abby primly.
‘Nor do I,’ said Hugo. ‘I’m divorced.’
Out of the window Abby could see extras running up the path to take part in Ein Heldenleben, which required a much bigger orchestra than Oberon.
‘Has Viking ever been married?’ she asked.
Hugo shook his head, too polite to snap that he’d been quizzed so often about Viking that he was thinking of making a tape.
‘But there is evidence he is taking life more seriously. Recently he left the ramshackle house on the edge of the Blackmere Lake, which he shares with the Celtic Mafia, and moved in with Juno Meadows, Second Flute, who lives,’ Hugo’s dark eyes gleamed with laughter, ‘in a converted squash court.’
‘Does she have long blond hair?’
‘That’s the one, ravissante in a doll-like way.’ Hugo tested the bed again, wondering what Abby was doing this evening. He had a terrific strike-rate with girls disappointed by Viking.
‘Juno,’ he added wickedly, ‘is so refined, she insists on eating bananas sideways.’
Abby burst out laughing.
‘And,’ continued Hugo, ‘despite being a hypochondriac, who rings in sick with a dislocated eyelash, she is very tough. The orchestra call her the Steel Elf. She refused to sleep with Viking till he moved in. He nearly went mad. Now she’s pushing him to get a better job. That’s why he was playing at Covent Garden last night. He’s already picking up her mortgage. But all the orchestra, including Viking, he’s a gambling man, are having bets as to how long it will last.
‘I ’ave to say I love the bloke, and we all forgive him, because he’s such a marvellous musician.’ Hugo looked at his watch. ‘We better get back, here endeth the first lesson.’
‘Omigod,’ said Abby appalled, ‘I forgot you had that horrendously difficult violin solo coming up. I should have left you in peace.’
‘Probably stopped me worrying,’ said Hugo philosophically.
What a pity, thought Abby, that he was at least three inches shorter than she was.
The tattered, bottle-green curtains had been pulled back as far as possible to accommodate the increased orchestra. Viking had four extra freelance horns in his section. There were two gold harps soaring like a king and a quee
n and an exciting array of percussion including a snare drum, which made a sinister relentless rattle, and cymbals gleaming like Ben Hur’s chariot wheels.
Irritated there were more players on stage, the orchestra were involved in their usual grumbles about over-crowding, music-stands and chairs in the wrong place, lighting and heating. Tomorrow they would have to cope with television cables and cameras. As Abby mounted the rostrum, she noticed Juno Meadows, Viking’s girlfriend, to the left, smugly aware of taking up hardly any room at all. Feeling disappointed Viking was taken — why the hell was she lusting after profligate horn players? — Abby was now in a didactic mood.
‘Ein Heldenleben,’ she told the players, who’d heard it all before, ‘means a hero’s life.’
She was interrupted by the arrival of a very fat, very pretty blonde, who sent several music-stands flying and waved frantically at Viking before plonking herself down beside a furious Steel Elf.
‘Who the hell booked Fat Rosie?’ muttered Hugo. ‘You only need thin musicians for Strauss.’
‘A hero’s life,’ went on Abby, ‘could be described as kinda autobiographical. It was written when Strauss was only thirty-four.’
‘Must have been bloody arrogant,’ said Viking, applying the Second Horn’s strawberry-flavoured lipsalve to his big mouth.
‘Just like you,’ said the Second Horn, retrieving it.
‘Quiet please.’ Hugo clapped his hands.
‘In this piece,’ continued Abby, ‘Strauss paints a savage picture of the critics who attacked his music. They are portrayed by the woodwind, scraping, squeaking and playing out of tune.’
‘Juno won’t have to try,’ sneered the First Trumpet, who had a cruel red-brick face.
‘Who said that?’ Viking was on his feet.
‘Don’t rise.’ The Second Horn pulled him back by his ‘Spoilt Bastard’ T-shirt.
‘Only joking,’ grinned the First Trumpet unrepentantly. ‘Sorry Juno.’
The orchestra, particularly the prettier girls, who entirely agreed with the First Trumpet, smirked into their music-stands.
