by Jilly Cooper
As Candy emerged from the coach 100, which was shaped like an upended coffin, Viking, ready for new sport, called out: ‘That’s a gorgeous T-shirt.’
‘On special offer in Parker’s this week,’ said Candy.
‘All my offers are special,’ retorted Viking, pulling her onto his knee.
Abby, who still hadn’t had time to buy a car, hired one to drive to Starhampton. Popping into the hall to pick up a black satin trouser suit from the conductor’s room, she found Little Jenny in floods, her round face red from the hairdresser, her brown hair a mass of Pre-Raphaelite curls.
‘They kept me under the dryer so long I missed the bus. Knickers’ll murder me.’
‘No, he won’t, hop in,’ said Abby. ‘You can remind me to drive on the left. Have you had any lunch? There are sandwiches in the glove compartment.’
It soon became clear that Jenny was thrilled not to be going on the coaches.
‘If you ride in Pond Life, Hilary and Molly sneer at you. It’s all right going there on Moulin Rouge, at least you can smoke, but it’s terrifying coming back, all the guys pounce on you.’
‘Who does?’ asked Abby.
‘El Creepo and Carmine Jones,’ Jenny bit into an egg-and-cress sandwich. ‘They both told me I’d get the job if I went to bed with them,’ she shuddered.
‘That’s gross,’ said Abby in horror. ‘Who else?’
‘The Celtic Mafia. They all think they’re God’s gift. All brass players are chauvinist pigs and homophobic. They despise Simon because he’s gay and Ninion because he’s gentle. Dixie and Randy are the worst. The other day,’ Jenny went absolutely scarlet, ‘the coach was driving past a sewage farm, and Dixie looked round at me, and shouted, “Close your legs, woman.” I was so embarrassed. That’s George Hungerford’s new place.’
Up an avenue of limes, Abby could see a large red Georgian house, big enough to be a school or a mental home. No doubt George would convert it, flog it and move on.
‘The changing rooms are a nightmare,’ went on Jenny, tucking into cucumber-and-tunafish. ‘Every time you take your clothes off, you feel the scorn. I know I’m overweight, but they make you feel like an outcast. And none of them seem interested in learning to play better. They accuse me of being a creep if I take my music home, or if I practise during the break. And they’re so awful to conductors.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ sighed Abby, desperate for reassurance.
‘Oh, they don’t like you because they hate taking orders from a woman. I think it’s mean,’ said Jenny, and having finished all the sandwiches, she fell asleep.
As Abby drove towards the slowly sinking sun, the countryside changed. White houses with grey roofs replaced the thatched cottages. The verges became banks filled with anemones and violets. Fields, divided by winding streams lined by osiers, rose into rounded hills. Wild garlic was taking over from fading bluebells. She must thank Cherub for his flowers, and she must fight on and restore some idealism to the RSO and protect people like Simon, Ninion and poor Little Jenny.
She arrived at Starhampton Town Hall as the instruments were being unloaded from a huge grey van with ‘Rutminster Symphony Orchestra’ written in red letters on the side. Barry was worried about a missing double bass which had already been unloaded. Carmine Jones was having a row with Charlton Handsome, the stage manager, whom he claimed had dented his trumpet.
‘You’ll bloody well have to pay for it.’
Viking was on Knickers’s mobile calling Juno.
‘Hi Shweetheart, howsh Nugent?’
As Abby followed the winding passages backstage, she could see through a door marked ‘Ladies of the Orchestra’, musicians hanging up black dresses from Next, Monsoon and Laura Ashley, and taking instruments out of cases, which also contained dusters, Lockets for sore throats, Ibuleve for aching backs, apples, fruit drinks in oblong cartons and pictures of husbands, boyfriends and children.
Having driven here with Abby, Jenny was delighted to find herself an unaccustomed centre of attention.
‘What was she like?’
‘OK, she shared her sandwiches with me. I think she’s lonely and wanted someone to talk to.’
After a quick rehearsal and dash into Starhampton for something to eat (and in the Celtic Mafia’s case to drink), the orchestra emerged transformed and mysteriously glamorous in their tails and black dresses to face a packed hall.
Both Hilary and Peggy Parker had a fit when they saw Nellie’s slit skirt fall open to reveal a red suspender belt and black fishnet stockings. Peggy Parker’s piggy little eyes were soon distracted by Francis Fairchild who played on the second desk of the First Violins. A wonderful musician, Francis was known as the ‘Good Loser’, because he was always mislaying his possessions. Tonight he had lost his black shoes, and padded onto the platform with black socks tugged over his brown shoes.
The Magic Flute overture fizzed along. The provinces were crazy about Mozart, and the audience were looking forward to his Second Horn Concerto. But just as Abby was returning to the platform, she heard crashes and shouting coming from the Green Room.
Rushing in, she found Lionel, Nicholas, Miles, Charlton Handsome, the Pond Life driver and two stage hands in dinner-jackets trying to restrain Viking, who was plainly out of his skull. Seeing Abby, he shook them off.
‘Maestro,’ mockingly he bowed, his slitty eyes going in all directions as he swayed in front of her, ‘let me play, I know I can play the concert.’
The scores of Haydn’s Trumpet Concerto were kept stacked in the van for any emergency. The sneering bully boy, Carmine Jones, despite his dented trumpet, would be more than happy to play it. Quinton Mitchell, the Third Horn, who badly wanted Viking’s job, was equally happy to stand in for him and play the Mozart. But Abby hadn’t mugged up the Haydn, and despite his disruptive behaviour, she still carried a flickering flashlight for Viking.
‘OK, if you figure you can do it, go ahead.’
It was a terrifying gamble, drink stops tongues and fingers co-ordinating. Throughout the concerto, over her left shoulder, Abby was aware of Viking swaying like a white poplar in a high wind. But he played flawlessly as though the shade of his hero Dennis Brain was lovingly guiding his breath and his long fingers. Perhaps it was his sadness over Juno, thought Abby wistfully, which made the middle movement unbearably poignant.
Having glassily acknowledged the roars of applause, however, Viking staggered back to the band room and passed out.
Elgar’s Second Symphony was a success after the break, particularly with the orchestra, because Abby was so carried away by the melancholy nostalgic music that she slowed down again, and pushed the orchestra into overtime, which put poor Knickers in a twist once more.
As there were some excellent chip shops and Indian restaurants in Starhampton, Knickers was also worried he might lose several musicians. But the quickest dressers in the world, within seconds, the orchestra were back in their clothes, tails back in plastic hangers, crushed velvet dresses shoved into carrier bags, and the instruments stowed away in the van.
Francis the Good Loser was chucked out of the Pond Life coach for trying to smuggle on a take-away curry.
‘Let him go and stink out Moulin Rouge,’ shouted Randy Hamilton. ‘We’ll all go and mob up Pond Life.’
So clanking bottles, carrying bags of chips and camp-followed by Clare, Candy, Nellie and Jenny and four percussion players, the Celtic Mafia changed buses.
Having had a good sleep in Elgar’s Second Symphony during which Quinton did stand in for him, Viking had woken up and was raring to go.
‘It’s my birthday, I can behave exactly as I like.’
He then remembered the birthday cake Miss Priddock had baked for him and tried to cut it on its silver cardboard disc with Blue’s penknife. As the coach moved off through the empty streets of Starhampton, however, he upended it spreading cream and chocolate butter-icing all over the floor of the bus to the noisy cheers of his supporters.
The bridge four looked
on stonily, particularly when Viking bore a pretty thoroughly over-excited married piccolo player off to the back of the bus. The madrigal group decided to ignore such infantile behaviour.
Militant Moll got out her song book.
‘We better call in the pest-control officer,’ she said sourly to Hilary, who’d just given Nellie yet another lecture on being improperly dressed.
‘In the final analysis, I prefer Byrd to Gibbons,’ Ninion was telling Simon Painshaw.
‘Unfair to gibbons,’ shouted Randy, making monkey faces and scratching himself under the arms.
The Celtic Mafia corpsed again. Lionel cleared his throat.
‘Come away, come sweet love, the golden morning breaks,’ he sang to a dimpling Hilary.
‘All the earth, all the air of love and pleasure speaks,’ sang Ninion, blushing as he gazed up at Militant Moll’s granite jaw.
A rival singsong, however, was soon in full swing at the back of the bus.
‘If forty whores in purple drawers were walking down the Strand,’ bellowed Randy and Dixie. ‘Do you suppose, the walrus said, that we could raise a stand?’
Dixie had Clare on his knee. Her big bum felt nice and warm, as he stroked her slender ankles.
‘Just ignore them and keep going,’ hissed Hilary.
‘My bonny lass she smileth
When she my heart beguileth,’ sang Simon, casting nervous glances at the back of the bus.
‘Fa, la, la, la, la, la,’ screeched Hilary.
‘Bloody sight too far, la, la, la, la, la,’ sang Dixie, chucking Clare’s velvet Alice band into the passing pale green woods.
‘I doubt it, said the carpenter, but wouldn’t it be grand,’ sang Randy, pulling Candy onto his knee.
‘That’s enough,’ snapped Lionel, but to no avail.
‘And all the time, the dirty swine was coming in his hand,’ chorused the Celtic Mafia.
‘Disgusting. Do something, Lionel.’ Hilary had gone pink with rage.
Afraid to confront the Celtic Mafia head-on, slipping on chocolate butter-icing and cream, Lionel strode down the bus to lodge a complaint with Knickers who was far too busy sitting on top of the driver, urging him on like Ben Hur. If the coach reached H.P. Hall later than twelve-thirty they would be into the next day, and by union rules, the musicians would be entitled to an extra free day later in the year.
‘You’re the leader, Lionel, you sort it out,’ said Knickers firmly, then to the driver: ‘Left here, then we can short-cut to Bath.’
Nellie the Nympho had other plans. Installing herself in the right-hand seat, just behind the driver, she un-buttoned her pink cardigan, enough for Blue still immersed in Alan Clark, to rub Ibuleve into her shoulders.
‘As it fell upon a day in the Merry Month of May,’ sang the Madrigal Group with gritted-teethed desperation.
‘The love juice running down my index finger,’ hollered back Dixie.
‘The way we used to come, and how we lingered,’ sang Randy in harmony.
‘Oh, how the smell of you clings,’ joined in Viking, finally letting go of the ecstatic piccolo player.
‘These foolish things remind me of you,’ sang Randy, smiling into Candy’s eyes.
‘Rather like being an air hostess,’ giggled Cherub, as he slid down the gangway carrying paper refills of whisky to Blue and Nellie, who, by this time, had undone most of her buttons. In his rear mirror, the bus driver could see her splendid breasts wriggling as she writhed under Blue’s expert fingers. The bus was definitely slowing down.
May 1st was nearly over. Anxious to win his bet, Dixie was geeing up Viking.
‘Why don’t you ring Juno?’ He handed him Knickers’s mobile.
‘Hi, schweetheart,’ said Viking a couple of minutes later, after punching out three wrong numbers. ‘Howsh Nugent?’
‘The bitch hung up on me,’ he said furiously.
Abby, who had been coerced into attending some mayoral reception, caught up with the coaches, around eleven forty-five. She’d been thinking of ways to make Little Jenny happier and, looking into the coach, was horrified to see Viking, whisky bottle raised to his lips like a conch, coming down the gangway, well, like a Viking, and pulling a girl into his arms. Abby nearly ran into a stone wall, the girl had long brown Pre-Raphaelite curls.
Drawing level, Abby peered in. Definitely Jenny. She must be rescued at all costs. Crawling along behind the coach, ignoring Cherub and Lincoln, Viking’s Fifth Horn, who recognized her and started waving like children, Abby waited for the next pee break.
Spitting with righteous indignation, she fought her way into the bus, seized Jenny’s hand and catching her off balance, dragged her out into the balmy night, where huge moths were bombing the bus’s headlamps.
‘What d’you do that for?’ said an aggrieved Jenny, shoving her left breast inside her bra.
‘Viking’s a beast, an animal. I’m so sorry, Jenny, I should have insisted I drove you back home.’
‘I didn’t mean Viking,’ squeaked Jenny. ‘I’ve wanted to snog him ever since I joined the orchestra.’ And with that she shot back into the bus.
But by this time Jenny’s innings were over. Seeing Fat Isobel stampeding him like a rhino, Viking looked up the coach and saw Hilary.
‘Come here, crosspatch.’
As his beautiful mouth came down on hers, Hilary pretended to fight him off, but she was secretly delighted. Just wait until she told Juno.
Fat Isobel, however, was still bearing down.
‘Come on,’ said Viking, pulling Hilary down the steps to the vertical coffin-shaped lavatory, where he found Militant Moll on the way out.
‘Sweet Moll Malone,’ taunted Viking, pushing her back into the coffin, ‘come and be degraded.’
Although Moll fought him off, she was also delighted. Just wait till she told Juno. Then she discovered Viking had Hilary in tow and had locked the coffin door on all three of them. Furious banging followed.
‘Whatever did Viking do to you?’ said Lionel furiously when at last Hilary emerged with her feathers ruffled.
‘I’m not going to tell you, but he’s got to apologize. I can’t wait to ring Juno.’
Slightly too long afterwards, Militant Moll emerged looking equally ruffled.
‘I’ve been sexually harassed,’ she hissed at Ninion. ‘Why didn’t you come and rescue me?’
Hilary had just finished wising up Juno, when the coach doors opened to let her out at her cottage.
‘See you in about twenty minutes,’ she whispered to Lionel, who, for appearance’s sake, had parked his car at H. P. Hall.
Clarissa and Mary-the-Mother-of-Justin were so tired they had slept through the whole journey. Mary’s head was resting on Clarissa’s shoulder.
‘Pretty thing,’ murmured Viking, stopping in his tracks to admire Mary’s madonna face and bending down, kissed her on the lips. For a second, Mary smiled, then opening her eyes, and realizing it wasn’t Johnno, her husband, she clouted Viking across the face. Sliding to the floor, he passed out cold.
As Randy, Dixie, Blue and Little Cherub carried Viking, like another coffin, to the door of Juno’s converted squash court, singing the ‘Death March’ from Saul, Mr Nugent started howling, and in the darkened bedroom above, the net curtains twitched furiously.
‘Oh, how the smell of you clings,’ sang Randy.
‘Fa, la, la, la, la, la,’ sang Cherub, giggling hysterically and trampling on a lot of pink tulips.
The cathedral clock tolled the half-hour.
‘Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong,’ sang the rest of the bus to wind up Knickers. They would reach H.P. Hall after twelve-thirty and get their free day.
Down below a ding-dong of a different kind was taking place. As Randy played the ‘Last Post’, waking up the entire street, and Nugent’s howls increased, a furious Juno, who’d been given a blow by blow account by Hilary, greeted Viking with a rolling pin.
Viking didn’t make it until the break the following afternoon, staggering
in, looking greener than the band room, followed by an exuberant Mr Nugent.
‘Behold El Parco,’ shouted Randy.
‘There’s a special offer for rolling pins in Parker’s basement,’ yelled Dixie.
‘But all Viking’s offers are special,’ said Blue drily.
‘All right, all right.’ Wearily Viking held up a shaking hand. ‘Will anyone I’ve got to apologize to, please line up.’
‘You can start off with me,’ said an angry, north-country voice, and everyone nearly dropped their cups of tea as George Hungerford stalked in. ‘If you ever behave like that again, you’re fired.’
‘How the hell did he become a section leader?’ George asked Lord Leatherhead later.
‘Rodney thought it might make him more responsible, but I’m afraid Viking’s a lawlessness unto himself.’
TWENTY-NINE
As soon as the rehearsal was over George bore Abby off for a pep talk.
‘There’s a light bulb out there,’ he added grimly, as he frogmarched her up the aisle, ‘and this curtain was hanging off its rail the first time I came down. This is an unloved hall.’
‘It’s an unlovable hall,’ snapped Abby. ‘We need a new one or at least a couple of million to restore it, right? Not to mention the chairs that all squeak and the music-stands which clunk.’
She was still listing imperfections when they reached George’s office which had already been re-wallpapered in brushed suede in a rather startling ginger, and re-carpeted in shaggy off-white. It was also now humming with smart computers. The Stock Exchange Index on the television screen showed that George Hungerford shares were up ten pence. The news of his appointment to the RSQ couldn’t have reached the City yet, thought Abby sourly.
The three-piece suite in shabby Liberty print had gone too, replaced by squashy pale brown leather sofas and chairs. A big oak desk dominated the room and on nearby tables like doll’s houses, stood exquisitely made Perspex models of domestic properties and office blocks, which George was currently developing.
