by Jilly Cooper
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 interval 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 house 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.’
‘It wasn’t Abby’s church,’ said Flora, joining the group to Miles’s fury. ‘She’s Jewish, and people use the word “asshole” all the time in America — it just means idiot. Anyway,’ she ploughed on ignoring the shocked faces, ‘Abby’s in excellent company. Handel used to swear in four languages at anyone, even royalty, who chatted in rehearsals, and he used to throw tiresome singers out of the window, although he’d have been pushed to evict Alphonso.’
‘Well said,’ Dame Edith gave a shout of laughter, then linking her arm through Flora’s led her towards the kitchen. ‘Come and have some grub. Like your flowered leggings, just like the Prima Vera.’ Then, lowering her voice, whispered, ‘How’s Marcus? Monica and I are awfully worried about the rift with Rupert and Taggie; poor boy feels things so deeply.’
‘The best thing you could do,’ said Flora, ‘is to get him some work.’
As soon as Dame Edith was out of earshot, Miles, guzzling Gwynneth and Gilbert, and the Bishop drew together for an indignation meeting.
‘Abigail’s got to be stopped, she can’t go on behaving like a yobbo. The “Hallelujah Chorus” sounded like rock music,’ said Miles fastidiously.
‘And that young woman Flora’s just as bad,’ sniffed Gwynneth.
Oblivious of the furore she had triggered off, Abby was thrilled to have been sought out by Monica Baddingham and the great Declan O’Hara, who was just to die for, to say how well she had done. She was livid, however, when she overheard several CCO players saying how tremendously the RSO had been improved by Julian.
‘It’s the great leader, of course, that makes a great orchestra,’ said Hugo, smiling coldly at Abby.
He was obviously still festering over his yellow cords. Then he turned to Gwynneth, who looked as though she had a couple of used cars hanging from her ears.
‘Lovely earrings, Gwynneth. Can I get you some bombe surprise? I know how you like desserts.’
‘I thought I’d have seconds of the coq first,’ simpered Gwynneth.
‘Nearest she’ll get to cock in this house,’ murmured Randy to Candy. ‘I’m surprised they’re not serving vibrator au vin.’
Hugo, who, unlike most of the RSO, realized how crucial it was to suck up to the Arts Council, took Gwynneth’s plate.
‘You’re so caring, Hugo,’ Gwynneth edged towards him. ‘What did you really think of Rosen’s performance?’
Hugo shrugged. ‘Not a lot. The jazzing up of the “Hallelujah Chorus” was terribly vulgar. George Frederick would have loathed it, and she’s such a drama queen.’
‘My sentiments entirely. How far exactly is Rutminster from Cotchester?’
‘Two score miles and ten,’ said Hugo. ‘And the RSO nearly didn’t get there by candlelight.’
‘One wonders,’ mused Gwynneth, ‘whether we really need two orchestras in the area.’
‘My sentiments even more entirely,’ said Hugo.
There was only warmth and sincerity in Hugo’s eyes as he forced himself to gaze into her lard-like face. Without flinching he accepted the pressure of her shapeless body. ‘I’ll get you some more coq, Gwynnie.’
Turning, he tripped over a large labrador and nearly deposited Gwynneth’s chicken bones into Alphonso’s capacious lap.
Alphonso, who was taking up seven-eights of the window-seat, didn’t flinch either.
‘I hop,’ he was telling Nellie, ‘that you will come to my suite for a night-hat.’
George, who’d been buttonholed for far too long, grabbed Abby as she passed.
‘Have a word with Gilbert, I know he wants to discuss the concert.’
Shoving them together to their mutual distaste, he belted off to find Dame Hermione. In his car on the way over, she had sung: ‘I’m a little lamb that’s lost in the wood’. George had never looked forward to a night-cap more in his life.
The heroine of the evening was now holding court on a frayed chaise-longue to a circle of admirers, many of them Press.
‘I just thought, poor fellow, poor fellow, he must be so terribly unhappy. Anyone that dependent on drink needs help.’
‘You’re so compassionate, Dame Hermione,’ gushed Gwynneth.
‘Have some fizz,’ said Monica Baddingham, waving a bottle.
Everyone put their hands over their glasses to demonstrate their lack of dependency.
‘I just wanted to congratulate you on your Fanny Cycle,’ went on Gwynneth reverently, ‘and Rannaldini has never conducted better.’
‘How is Rannaldini?’ asked a man from The Times idly.
Flora, on her way to the 100, stopped in her tracks.
‘Oh, full of beans,’ said Hermione heartily, her small hand creeping surreptitiously into George’s big one.
‘How’s his new marriage?’ asked the Guardian.
‘Excellent,’ said Hermione, her eyes suddenly twinkling. ‘I sometimes think he married her for her packing.’
Flora groaned and ran upstairs. She was desperately tired and near to tears. After
admiring the famous musicians, including Rannaldini in arctic profile framed on the wall of Edith’s bathroom, she unlocked the door and came out slap into Carmine.
‘You played brilliantly tonight,’ she stammered, conscious of the lurking menace of the man. ‘I wish all the brass section had been at the concert to hear you.’
Edging along the wall towards the stairs, she was stopped by the iron bar of his arm.
‘Give us a kiss, then.’
Avoiding a vile sour waft of vinous breath which must have corked inside him, Flora pecked him on the cheek. The next moment, Carmine had grabbed her hair, yanking her head back, forcing his sneering mouth on hers with a clash of teeth, scratching her with his horrible moustache. As she writhed with the strength of utter revulsion, his other hand dived under her dark blue jersey, pinching her breasts till she screamed.
‘You bloody little bra-less prick-tease.’
‘Lemme go.’ Flora was desperately trying to knee him in the balls, when a voice said: ‘Ahem. I spy a strugglin’ musician.’
‘Fuck off,’ snarled Carmine, but his grip eased.
Wriggling away, Flora went slap into the scented, medallion-hung bulk of Jack Rodway the receiver.
‘Oh, thank God.’
‘You OK?’
Flora nodded. ‘No fool like a bold fool,’ she said shakily.
Jack turned on Carmine.
‘If you ever lay a finger on this young lidy again, I’ll get George’s boys on you, before he fires you.’
Swearing, snarling, Carmine lurched off upstairs.
Flora was shaking uncontrollably.
‘Poor li-el fing.’ Jack’s arms closed around her. ‘Come and have a jar at the Bar Sinister.’
Out of the landing window, Flora could see musicians streaming out to the waiting coach.
‘I gotta go.’
‘I’ll run you home later, it’s no distance at night. I’ve thought a lot about you, Flora.’
