Appassionata rc-5

by Jilly Cooper

  Sonny had also been active organizing a claque of comely youths from the soft-furnishing department to provide a standing ovation.

  ‘Now, really clap your hands, boys, shout, “Bravo” and stamp your feet.’

  Sonny’s favourite, however, was rumoured to be a plump young man with soft brown curls in all the right places, who was going to dress in lederhosen and provide the yodelling tonight.

  At ten o’clock, by which time the temperature had soared into the nineties, the orchestra were released, many of them to sunbathe so they would look good in their summer uniform of white dinner-jackets, or for women, dresses in a single colour, whose skirts must fall at least nine inches below the knee.

  As Rutshire was playing Yorkshire on the cricket ground next to the cathedral, Old Henry and Old Cyril found a couple of deckchairs. As he opened a can of beer, Old Cyril thanked God for the millionth time that Viking and Blue had carried him through his audition.

  Having spent the morning on the telephone shouting at his builder who had omitted to put a staircase in a new office block: ‘Now, that’s one I really can’t lie about, George,’ George Hungerford had also hoped to slope off to the cricket ground to cheer on his home county.

  Coming out of his office, however, he had found Eldred, the First Clarinet, in tears. They were so badly in debt that his wife had left him.

  ‘You better tell me about it,’ sighed George, going back into his office.

  Carmine Jones’s face grew even redder as he pleasured Lindy Cardew, wife of Rutminster’s planning officer, on her peach nylon sheets.

  ‘I’ll get you back into the choir, Lindy, if it kills me.’

  Poor Catherine Jones had no time to practise her cor anglais, she had been far too busy washing and ironing Carmine’s dress-shirt and getting suspicious-looking grass stains out of his white tuxedo, and sobbing over the primrose-yellow taffeta dress with huge puffed sleeves which had been fashionable the year the Princess of Wales had married Prince Charles, the same year she had married Carmine. Apart from a black polyester shift to wear to winter concerts, she had not had a new dress since then.

  Tonight’s outfit had to be one colour. Cutting the orange fire bird made of sequins from the yellow taffeta bodice as she shoved baked beans down fractious children, Catherine had jagged a large hole in the bodice. At this rate, she wouldn’t have time to wash her hair. As Carmine was pathologically stingy he had ordered Catherine to come home immediately after William Tell to relieve the babysitter and not even stay for drinks in the interval. Catherine fingered a large bruise on her left cheek and hoped make-up would hide it.

  The soloist in Liszt’s Piano Concerto that evening was Benny Basanovich, a half-French, half-Russian pig, who could only play loudly. He therefore chose pieces (and women, said Viking) where he could bang away. Good looking in a brutal fashion, Benny had thick black ram’s curls falling to his shoulders, a hooked nose, slanting eyes beneath thick brown eyebrows and a big, light red mouth. A Shepherd Denston artist, he’d always been wildly jealous of Abby because she was more famous than him, but he got much more work than he deserved because Howie fancied him.

  After a brief telephone call to Lionel, both men decided that Lionel would follow Benny and bring in the orchestra as necessary, and that everyone would ignore Abby.

  By two o’clock, the beauticians had Abby corsetted, dressed, made-up and coiffeured. She was then subjected to an interview and a long photographic shoot with the Daily Telegraph, followed by a press conference and photo-call in the burning heat.

  ‘Can’t I even take off my panty hose?’ pleaded Abby.

  ‘Certainly not, Luvlilegs have taken a full-page ad in the programme,’ said Crystelle, shutting up such subversion with a huge powder-puff slap in Abby’s face. ‘Always remember to brush powder upwards, it raises the hairs on your face and gives you a far livelier expression.’

  ‘Don’t you look a poppet,’ cried Peggy Parker in ecstasy. ‘What a transformation.’

  Peggy herself, already made-up and wearing a white kimono over her massive corseted bulk, looked like an all-in wrestler. On the window-sill, as more dark blue lines were drawn under her lashes, Abby noticed a gift-wrapped present.

  ‘To Abigail Rosen, Thank you indeed for a very pleasant concert, sincerely, Peggy Parker,’ said the accompanying card.

  There was one for Benny, too.

  Out of the window Abby could see a beautiful sunken garden, crammed with red, white and blue rock plants. She wanted to dive into the lily pond in the centre, crack open her aching head and never wake again. Catching sight of a dreadful drag queen in the mirror, she gave a moan of anguish. But Abby had never lacked courage, one hundred thousand pounds for the RSO was worth twelve hours of humiliation.

  The sweet heady smell of honeysuckle and tobacco plants grew stronger with the coming of night, mingling with the hundred different ‘fragrances’ of Mrs Parker’s invited guests who had paid one hundred and fifty pounds for their tickets and hospitality throughout the evening, and who were now noisily spilling out of the VIP tent. Most of the women had streaked hair and wore a lot of make-up which looked better as the light faded. They enjoyed a concert, they knew the tunes from Classic FM and it was such fun to look at each other’s jewels and clothes and see who’d been asked.

  They all longed for a word with George Hungerford, whose manly, attractively rumpled face was always looking out from the financial pages, but sadly he was being monopolized by their husbands, hoping perhaps that some of his huge success might rub off on them.

  George, in fact, was in a foul temper. He had somehow mopped up Eldred and persuaded him to play, but he was fed up with being bossed around by Peggy Parker. He had also just had a frightful row with Benny, who had refused to come out of his dressing-room and give a ‘very pleasant’ concert to anyone unless he was paid cash up front.

  The orchestra were nearly all in their seats. Miss Parrott had availed herself of Peggy Parker’s offer of ge-owns at trade. A symphony of harebell-blue tulle with a mauve-blue beehive to match, she smiled across at Dimitri, the Principal Cellist, who started the concert.

  Knickers was in a terrible twist, again, running around in his shirt sleeves, livid that he’d had to hand over his white dinner-jacket to Francis the Good Loser, who’d brought tails by mistake. Francis had also forgotten his black socks, and rectified the mistake by smothering his ankles with Old Henry’s black boot polish.

  Catherine Jones was late. As a Second Oboe wasn’t needed in William Tell, Ninion propped up the bar and festered. He wasn’t going to help them out if Cathie didn’t show up.

  At half-past seven on the dot, Mrs Parker, resplendant in a diamond tiara and red bustier with matching organdie skirt, swept down the hill in a white open-topped Bentley. Beside her, a third of her size, but radiating equal complacency, sat Sonny in a white silk tunic. With his lank dark hair loose round his silly beaky face, he looked like a parrot peering out of its baize cloth.

  Dismounting from their triumphal car, Mrs Parker and Sonny were clapped onto the rostrum by the audience led by Sonny’s claque from soft furnishing.

  They were followed by Abby. Clad in an electric-blue lurex shirtwaister which fell to mid-calf, she was shod in electric-blue shoes, whose four-inch heels kept falling into the cracks in the ground. Due to the tightness of her skirt it took her three goes to climb onto the platform. She was bowed down by vast rubies at her neck, ears and wrists. Her hair was bouffant, lacquered and blonded, her make-up thick as a raddled old tart in the early evening sunshine.

  The orchestra, ably led by Lionel, were clutching their sides.

  Flora was torn by horror and helpless laughter. Oh poor Abby. Marcus who loved Abby was absolutely furious; he wanted to punch Mrs Parker and George on the nose. He was also having increasing trouble breathing because of the heat, dust and pollen, and because the chauffeurs were keeping their engines going to enjoy the air-conditioning as they waited in the car-park.

  Viking who h
ad not forgotten the beauty of Abby’s figure in a red body-stocking was equally appalled.

  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered to Blue, ‘she looks like Michael Heseltine in drag.’

  ‘Joan of Arc burnt at the stake did not do more for France than I have for this orchestra,’ hissed Abby to the First Violins as she passed.

  ‘Throw a few faggots round the base then,’ murmured Lionel to Bill Thackery, the co-leader.

  ‘Plenty of those around,’ said Bill, who was very straight, glaring at Sonny’s claque dominating the third row.

  ‘Well done Abby, you look chumpion,’ lied George.

  Having countenanced this transformation, he had to support it publicly, but was secretly horrified.

  Mrs Parker and Sonny had already mounted the platform. Vast and tiny, a telephone box beside a small snowman, they were joined by an electric-blue beanpole, and the photographers went berserk.

  ‘Peggy’s done it again, have to hand it to her, the gal’s got style,’ chorused her friends.

  At a distance, Abby had a certain splendour like the Statue of Liberty.

  Mrs Parker then introduced the ‘new look’ Parker and Parker had especially created for Abigail Rosen.

  ‘Abigail’s coiffeure has been softly styled and highlightened by Guiseppe.’

  Clap, clap, clap, clap, went the audience.

  ‘Maquillage,’ Mrs Parker had been practising her French, ‘by Crystelle, rubies by Precious, armpits — ’ Mrs Parker allowed herself a little joke — ‘by Braun.’

  ‘Hope Militant Moll’s listening,’ muttered Candy.

  ‘Abigail’s ge-own is designed by myself, do a twirl, Abigail, you will all notice the kick-pleat.’

  Clap, clap, clap, clap.

  ‘This is terrible,’ groaned Viking.

  ‘Foxie’s going to write a new book of martyrs starting with Abby,’ said Flora.

  Surreptitiously getting her puppet fox from underneath her chair, she made him wave at Abby, who continued to gaze, grimly into space, not a smile lifting her blood-red lips.

  ‘Those in the front rows,’ vulpine Mrs Parker leered round, ‘will notice Abigail is wearing Peggy, my new inhouse fragrance.’

  ‘I’m wearing Piggy,’ stage whispered Clare, reducing the entire viola section to hysterics, which were fortunately drowned by the orchestra playing, ‘Happy Birthday, Peggy.’

  Mrs Parker nodded graciously.

  ‘Thenk you, thenk you.’ Then, turning graciously to Abby, ‘and now, Maestro, will you make music.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Ninion, still brooding, propped up the bar. He had drunk a litre of cider and a large gin and tonic as a chaser. He should have been playing that solo. Then he had a brainwave. Pushing his way through the crowds he reached the electrician who was doing the fireworks.

  ‘It’s my birthday,’ he began pathetically. ‘My parents were so poor we could never afford fireworks at home.’

  Touched by this tale, the electrician, who wanted to get drunk with his mates, accepted a tenner and handed the job over to Ninion.

  The only person who looked worse than Abby was Cathie Jones. Her tired red-rimmed eyes were as worried as an Alsatian’s above a muzzle. Scurf from nerves encrusted the prematurely grey roots of her lank coppery hair. Her tights were mostly darn, her make-up thicker than Abby’s to cover the bruise on her cheek. She was so thin that the ghastly primrose dress looked like a hand-me-down from a much older sister. A cheap brooch, covering the hole she had torn this afternoon, resembled an outsize nipple.

  ‘What a dog,’ said Quinton Mitchell, Third Horn, in disgust. ‘No wonder Carmine’s humping Lindy Cardew.’

  Blue swung round to land Quinton one, but just in time Abby raised her baton, an exercise in weightlifting as her ruby bracelet glittered in the fading sunlight.

  Dimitri was just about to draw his bow across the strings, when a loud voice said; ‘If you’re into harcheology, Turkey is definitely the place, thank you very, very much.’

  It was Lindy Cardew coming in late, blowing discreet kisses at Carmine.

  ‘That’s ’im,’ she whispered to her friend. ‘You just wait till he blows ‘is trumpet.’

  Abby shot Lindy an absolutely filthy look, not lost on any of the audience, and brought down her stick.

  Buoyed up by a beta-blocker and several swigs of sherry from Miss Parrott’s hip-flask, Dimitri and his four cellos brought tears to everyone’s eyes with the beautiful introduction which was followed by the thrilling crashes of the storm. Abby found it almost impossible to conduct in high heels; only the thought that she would land on El Creepo stopped her falling into the orchestra.

  It was time for Catherine Jones’s cor anglais solo, and the instant she started playing, the mockery faded on people’s faces. She looked as though she was sucking some heavenly nectar out of a bent straw, as if an angel’s hand had fun over her strained, tortured face restoring its former beauty.

  Even the waitresses stopped washing up glasses to listen to the langourous, hauntingly lovely tune. No wonder Carmine was jealous. Even Abby looked at peace, her hand rising and falling in slow motion like a dancer’s as she smiled down at Cathie.

  Such enthusiasm was too much for Ninion. A plague on both you hussies. There was a deafening explosion. For a terrifying moment, people thought it was a bomb, then twenty thousand pounds’ worth of fireworks erupted.

  Crash, crash, crash, went Roman candles, jumping jacks, Catherine wheels, spilling out red, white and blue sparks; whoosh went the rockets exploding miles into the air, lost against a fading turquoise sky including the climax which said: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO PEGGY PARKER in red, white and blue. Cathie’s solo, and Peter Plumpton’s flute variations were totally obliterated, and there were no fireworks left for Carmine’s fanfare and the rousing finale. Piggy Parker was not the only one going ballistic. Blue was on his feet.

  ‘I’m going to strangle that focking electrician.’

  As he dived for the edge of the platform, Viking pulled him back: ‘Wait for the break and we’ll both throttle him.

  ‘I need you to drown Benny,’ he added as an afterthought, as a nine-foot Steinway was wheeled on to the usual grumbling from the First and Second Violins. Clare, Candy, Flora, Juno, Nellie, Noriko and Mary-the-Mother-of-Justin, who had all been taken individually aside and told that Benny was playing the concerto just for them, waited expectantly. Cherub, who was playing the famous triangle solo in the third movement, shook with excitement, his triangle swinging from its silver stand like a hangman’s noose.

  Benny was definitely drunk when he came onto the platform, even the lingering sulphur of the fireworks couldn’t disguise the wine fumes. He’d hardly bothered to warm up. He just regards this as a bread-and-butter concert, thought Abby furiously.

  Twiddles from the orchestra, followed by rigid-fingered banging from Benny, had the audience, who were all now fanning their sweating faces with their programmes, jumping out of their seats.

  Marcus put his head in his hands; how could anyone play so insensitively and so badly? Oh God, give me a chance.

  At first, Abby tried to cover up Benny’s missed entries and fluffed lines, then she realized that half the orchestra were ignoring her and following Benny. Others like Dimitri, Blue, Viking and Flora, feeling desperately sorry for Abby, were following her instead. The result was almost more contemporary than Sonny Beam and, as Benny skipped a few bars whenever things got too difficult, everyone was soon jumping around like Tom and Jerry.

  ‘I played the last page three times,’ muttered Viking, at the end of the first movement.

  ‘Library gave me the wrong concerto,’ said Blue grimly.

  Ninion, by this time, had escaped across a little bridge to the opposite bank with another litre of cider and a duck caller. So the slow movement, despite Benny’s bashing, was accompanied by furious quacking as though Donald Duck had joined Tom and Jerry.

  Further hassle was provided by the mosquitoes, unchecked by the darting swallows, who wer
e now attacking players in droves, particularly the balder heads of older members of the orchestra. Finally a huge dragonfly landed like a helicopter on the baldest head, that of Dimitri.

  ‘Quack, quack, quee-ack,’ called Ninion plaintively from the reeds.

  Any giggling by the orchestra was then obliterated by Benny crashing into the last movement, interspersed by the silver shimmer of Cherub’s triangle. Cherub looked so angelic with his blond curls, pink cheeks and his excited smile, that the audience gazed at him, which made a furious Benny bash louder than ever.

  At the end Abby stormed off, catching a four-inch heel in a chair leg, and falling off the platform into George’s arms.

  ‘Let me go,’ she hissed, enveloped by his strength and solidarity, longing to sob her heart out on one of his wide shoulders.

  ‘The Press want a photograph of you and Benny,’ said George.

  ‘I do not share that pianist’s interpretation,’ said Abby through gritted teeth.

  ‘Nor do I to be honest,’ conceded George, who had vowed never to book Benny again. ‘But let’s just get through this evening.’

  Fortunately the audience who’d chatted throughout hadn’t noticed a thing wrong and were now looking forward to ‘bubbly and nibbles’ in the VIP tent.

  ‘What is the matter with Eldred?’ asked Quinton as Abby returned and raised the horn section to their feet for a special clap.

  ‘Wife’s just left him,’ said Blue.

  ‘Is that all? Thought he must be upset he was half a tone sharp in that last solo.’

  But Blue had gone leaping into the crowd like a bloodhound in search of the focking electrician.

  The setting sun balancing on the horizon gilded the huge trees of the park and softened the ox-blood stone of Rutminster Towers. House martins dived in and out of the eaves feeding their young. In the VIP tent the ice had run out, all Peggy’s pals expecting ‘bubbly’ were disappointed to be fobbed off with mulled Pimm’s.