by Jilly Cooper
Half an hour from the end of the afternoon, the RSO limped to the end of the ‘Benedictus’, and the section leaders crowded wearily into the control-room to listen to the play-back. Eldred, already suicidal at the prospect of a wifeless Christmas, was white and shaking because he hated rows. Dimitri, Simon and Peter Plumpton sat listening with heads bowed because they hated bad playing. Dixie and Carmine just hated each other. Jerry the Joker looked at Serena’s legs. Davie Buckle and Barry the Bass who had played jazz all night were asleep.
El Creepo edged along the squashy sofa, so his right-hand fingers folded round his upper arm could rub against the more exciting squashiness of Mary’s pretty right breast. A totally oblivious Mary was worrying what food shops would still be open, and if she sold her pearls would she get enough to pay the telephone bill and buy a tricycle for Justin for Christmas. Bill Thackery, radiating decency and solidarity, had quite recovered from his mini-tantrum. Blissful to be centre stage for once, he thought nothing had ever sounded more lovely than his dreadful solo.
‘Bill’s all right in the higher register where only bats can hear him,’ muttered Viking to Tommy Stainforth, Principal Percussion.
Slumped against the parquet wall, reading a rave review in Gramophone of his Strauss concerto, Viking looked shattered, his blond mane lank and separating. He had to drive to Bristol to play Mozart’s Fourth Horn Concerto that evening. Through the glass panel he could see Flora. Having boasted he would pick her off, he had been enraged to be pipped by Jack Rodway. Look at her now, flipping through Clare’s copy of Tatler, yacking away to Cherub, Noriko and Candy, making them all laugh, always the focus of bloody attention.
Serena was making notes at her desk.
‘I’ll buy that if you will, Boris,’ she said, more out of despair.
Boris, who was sobering up, shook his head. ‘“Benedictus” is too pretty, too charming.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ muttered Dixie.
‘Those crochets are too long,’ agreed Dimitri. ‘The melody seduce me.’
‘I screw up this tape,’ said Boris grandiosely, ‘we vill do it again, have this von on me.’
‘Well, step on it,’ said Serena. ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes to go before we’re into overtime.’
Serena was passionately relieved when George stalked in just back from Manchester. Having been briefed by Miles, he immediately asked for a score. His face grew grimmer as once again Boris and the ‘Benedictus’ drew to its utterly biteless conclusion. Not a chord or a scale was together.
‘Good thing this glass is bullet-proof,’ said Serena bleakly, ‘We should have stuck with L’Appassionata.’
‘Don’t tell her, she’ll be even more impossible.’
‘At this rate, we’ll go into a second week. If he doesn’t get his act together tomorrow, we’ll have to reschedule or pull the whole thing.’
For a second they gazed at each other; they had planned a leisurely dinner leading to other things.
George sighed. ‘I’ll take him home and force-feed him the score.’ He put a rough hand on hers, ‘There’ll be oother occasions.’
‘Not if the RSO go on playing like this. See you all tomorrow at nine forty-five,’ she called over the talk-back.
Like prisoners in the dungeons of Fidelio the musicians shambled out, frustrated, tired and blaming Boris.
‘Poor Boris,’ protested Noriko. ‘He is very sad to be dragged away from King Rear.’
‘Viking’s King Rear’, said Nellie wistfully, ‘always forcing that gorgeous ass into the tightest jeans.’
A swaying Boris was hijacked on the way out. After initial pleasantries, George asked him where he was staying.
‘Voodbine Cottage, Abby and Flora invite me.’
‘Uh-uh,’ George grabbed Boris’s arm, ‘you’re cooming home with me. You’re going to sober oop, and spend the night with the score instead of one of those two scroobers.’
Unfortunately he hadn’t seen Flora who was lurking in the shadows. She was in total despair, as she remembered the excitement with which they had all worked to finish the Requiem in the summer.
‘I’m not a scrubber,’ she said furiously. ‘If you hadn’t junked Abby, none of this would have happened,’ and fled into the icy night.
Having been forced to drink four Alka-Seltzers before being put straight to bed, Boris slept for nine hours. George woke him at five, giving him black coffee and four hours on the Requiem.
By this time Boris was ready for a huge fry-up, including fried bread spread with Oxford Marmalade.
‘Public-school habit I peek up from Flora.’
‘My cross,’ said George bleakly.
‘Is excellent girl,’ protested Boris.
‘You’ve been seduced by a not particularly pretty face,’ snapped George.
‘Is Cordelia in Lear, “so young, my lord, and true”. My God — ’ Boris clapped his hand to his forehead in horror — ‘vere is my Lear manuscript, three month’s vork, I am ruined.’
‘Sit down.’ George poured Boris another cup of coffee. ‘I put it in the office safe.’
Boris slumped back in his chair.
‘You are horrible, but very good guy. You save vork of art.’
George made sure Boris arrived at the studios in good time. They were greeted by a smirking shifty-eyed Carmine. Cathie had flu, and couldn’t play ‘Rachel’s Lament’ in the ‘Libera Me’. Knickers was tearing the remains of his red hair out. Where would he find a cor anglais player in Christmas week at five minutes’ notice?
‘Cathie could have bloody rung.’
Miss Parrott leapt to Cathie’s defence.
‘That bug going round knocks you for six.’
‘So does that bugger,’ said an anguished Blue, who hadn’t slept for two nights with excitement at the prospect of seeing Cathie and who had turned up in his best blue shirt. ‘I know he’s blacked Cathie’s eye or worse. I’m going round there.’
‘Don’t,’ hissed Viking, ‘the bastard will notice you’re missing. Lindy Cardew has just returned brown as a berry from the Seychelles, courtesy no doubt of George Hungerford. On Friday she and the planning officer are off again to Gstaad. Carmine doesn’t want Cathie around cramping his style.’
Nicholas, Miles, George, Serena and Boris were in a despairing huddle around the rostrum
‘We’ll have to record the “Libera Me” at a later date,’ said Boris.
‘The only solution,’ said Flora strolling up to them, ‘is for Viking to play the solo.’
‘The hell I will,’ Viking didn’t look up from Classical Music, ‘Boris didn’t want me in the first place.’
‘That is untrue,’ said Boris outraged, ‘I offer it to heem once.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, bury your pride, both of you,’ said Flora. ‘You bloody well owe it to us, Boris, for wasting all our times yesterday.’
‘Ahem,’ George cleared his throat, ‘I would like to remind you,’ he told Flora tartly, ‘that until otherwise stated I am nominally in charge of this orchestra.’
‘Well, tell them not to be so pigheaded.’
‘I don’t ’ave French ’orn version,’ said Boris sullenly.
‘I do,’ said Flora, ‘I kept it in my locker. One never knows when these things might come in useless, as you’re obviously all opposed to the idea.’
‘Go and get it,’ said George.
‘It’s only got a bass accompaniment,’ said Serena, as they all pored over the Sellotaped-together page. ‘You and Barry can practise it in the lunch-hour, Viking.’
‘I’m busy,’ said Viking haughtily, ‘I’ll sight-read it.’
Flora’s pleasure in having secured him the solo evaporated at his lack of enthusiasm. Battling with an icy wind in the High Street on her way to send flowers to Cathie Jones, she felt even worse. A BMW screamed to a halt and Viking leapt out. He had put on a tie and had brushed his hair. For a blissful moment, Flora thought he was stopping to thank her; instead he belted into the florists,
bought every freesia in the place and belted out again.
Flora started to cry. She ached all over. No-one ever said, ‘Well done, violas’. She was fed up and lonely. She hated George for calling her a scrubber and Viking for bombarding beauties with freesias. Even worse was the thought of Christmas, with all its jollity and loving kindness. She would have to go home to warring parents and a place that reminded her only of Rannaldini.
The rest of the RSO had a much better day. Boris was back on form conducting with his old fire and inspiration. They worked fast polishing off the ‘Agnus Dei’, the ‘Lux Aeterna’ and a vastly improved ‘Benedictus’.
It was time for ‘Rachel’s Lament’.
‘Aren’t you nervous?’ said Cherub admiringly.
Viking shook his head. He had the big-match temperament, that needed adrenalin pumping through his veins to make him perform at his best. Throwing his paper cup of coffee at the waste-paper basket and missing, he picked up his horn. He had removed his tie and jacket. His casket of earth glinted in the V of his dark blue shirt which had escaped from his jeans. Two days in an airless, ill-lit studio had taken their toll. The pale skin fell away from his high cheek-bones, the lines were deeply etched round the bruised mouth, the slitty eyes had disappeared into black shadows.
Too much sex at lunch-time, thought Flora sourly.
I must sign him up, sighed Serena. He’d just have to stand there and smoulder.
Cathie’s version of ‘Rachel’s Lament’ had been poignant, haunting, coming from the depth of her sadness, the last cry of the dying swan. Viking curdled the blood, the rising fourths and fifths singing out, probing, incessant, insistent, almost unbearably raw and primitive. One great player saluting the departure of another.
Miles, Nicholas, George, Miss Priddock holding John Drummond, even Harry Hopcraft, the financial director, crowded into the control-room to listen. All sat spellbound. Only Viking and Julian had that ability at five o’clock on a mean, grey afternoon to bring tears spurting out of the weariest eyes.
Boris, whose eyes were completely misted over, pointed vaguely in Carmine’s direction to bring in the fanfare of trumpets sounding for Rachel on the other side, before the final majestic tutti.
The instant the red light went out, everyone burst out cheering. Boris had pinched Bill’s red-spotted handkerchief to wipe his eyes and was just about to congratulate Viking when the telephone rang. Snatching it up, Boris listened for a second.
‘You tell him. Vy do I always do your dirty vurk?’ he slammed down the receiver and took a deep breath.
‘Viking, that was fantastic, absolutely vonderful, perfect, out of these vorld, but we have technical fault. Could you possibly do exactly the same thing again?’
The orchestra winced collectively, waiting for the explosion.
‘I know women just like that,’ drawled Viking.
Everyone in the studio and the control-room collapsed in relieved and helpless laughter. And Viking did it again — even better.
The next moment he and Boris were hugging each other.
‘Let’s go and get vasted.’
FORTY-ONE
After getting plastered with Boris, Viking was woken at noon by his cleaner, Mrs Diggory, banging noisily against the skirting-boards as she hoovered outside his room. She was due to leave at one o’clock. She hadn’t been paid for three weeks, and was more hopeful of a Christmas bonus if she woke up Viking, who, when he was in funds, was the most generous of the Celtic Mafia. Picking his way through piles of dropped clothes, dog bowls and curry trays, carrying his head gingerly downstairs as if he were trying not to spill it, Viking begged Mrs Diggory to make him a cup of coffee.
‘I can’t do the bedrooms, they’re all occupied,’ she sniffed.
‘You can do mine,’ said Viking, ‘and change the sheets, please.’
‘Expecting company?’ Mrs Diggory had to slant the kettle to fill it above the mountain of soaking plates and mugs.
‘Probably,’ Viking peered gloomily at his reflection in the dingy hall mirror. His hair was so long on top, he’d soon have a middle parting like Nugent.
As he let Nugent out to see off any lurking duck, he noticed the shadow of Woodbine Cottage, across the lake through the bare trees above a fading red carpet of beech leaves.
Picking up the telephone, he called Giuseppe, Parker and Parker’s most sought-after hairdresser.
‘Of course, I’ll fit you in, Viking love, but why must you always call at the last minute?’
‘Going to get your hair done?’ said Mrs Diggory cosily, as she put three spoonfuls of sugar into night-black coffee.
‘I don’t have my hair done, I have it cot,’ said Viking haughtily, then, picking up Mrs Diggory’s copy of the Sun, and turning to the back page, exclaimed, ‘Glory Hallelujah!’
Seizing Mrs Diggory, he waltzed her round the kitchen.
‘Flora’s Pride won by three lengths at 40-1, I’ve just won two hundred quid.’
‘Most of that owed to me.’
‘Indeed it is.’ Viking retrieved a betting-slip before chucking his jeans into the washing-machine, and gave it to Mrs Diggory.
‘Hand it in to Ladbrokes in the High Street and keep the change for a Christmas bonus.’
‘You sure?’ squawked Mrs Diggory in delight.
‘Otterly.’
‘You won’t recognize your room when you get back.’
‘Leave the heating on, lock it, and leave the key in there — ’ Viking tapped the willow-pattern teapot on the dresser — ‘to stop the other basstards using it.’
‘Don’t get too whistled, and forget where I’ve left it.’
Viking glanced at his watch, and reached for the last wine bottle in the rack.
‘We’ve got time for a quick glass, then I mosst dash.’
‘You better wrap up warm, snow’s forecast.’
Searching for her cheque book in the chaos of the drawing-room, Flora discovered an Advent calendar Cherub had given Abby for Christmas, and in an orgy of misery wolfed all the chocolates behind the doors.
Still feeling sick, she wandered listlessly through Parker’s, mostly because it was the only warm place in the High Street. In the record department, she noticed how little music had been written for the viola. She must start singing again. What the hell could she buy her parents? A pair of boxing gloves? On her salary she could hardly afford the wrapping paper.
‘In the Bleak Midwinter,’ sang Hermione over the loudspeaker.
Flora had no difficulty recognizing the orchestra; she’d know that razor-sharp precision anywhere. Looking up, she saw a Rannaldini poster glaring down at her, an inch of white cuff showing off the only hands that had ever really given her pleasure, she had been cold, ever since his arms had left her.
Oh bloody hell, thought Flora, I’m not putting up with any more frozen nights at Woodbine Cottage.
Running downstairs to the Household Emporium, she was just paying for a very expensive electric blanket, when the cheque was removed from her hands and torn into tiny pieces.
Whipping round, Flora found herself looking at dark gold stubble, surrounding the widest, wickedest smile.
‘You’re not going to need that tonight, darling.’
‘I’ve just made out the bill,’ squawked the shop assistant, furious to be robbed of the tiny commission, ‘and dogs are not allowed in here.’
But Flora was gazing up into Viking’s face, the colour staining her pale cheeks. Suddenly they were interrupted by an old lady tapping on Viking’s shoulders.
‘That was a lovely concert, Victor, we enjoyed it so much.’
‘Thanks, darling,’ Viking had to bend right down to kiss her wrinkled cheek. ‘Happy Christmas, see you in the spring. And I’ll see you later,’ he added to Flora, then he and Nugent were gone, haring off to catch the lift for Giuseppe and the hairdressing salon.
‘Such a nice young man,’ quavered the old lady to Flora and the assistant, who clearly didn’t think so at all.
‘Viking played to you at lunch-time yesterday?’ squeaked Flora.
The old lady nodded. ‘He often plays to us, and at the hospital. Other people come from the orchestra, but Victor’s our pin-up. I love his cheeky grin.’
‘Oh, so do I,’ said Flora. ‘Thank you for telling me, and Happy Christmas. I’m really sorry,’ she added to the assistant, ‘but I’ll spend the money somewhere else in the store. Can you possibly direct me to party dresses?’
Back at Woodbine Cottage, Marcus had finally got rid of his last pupil of the day.
Smothered in Opium, wearing the tightest bottle-green cashmere jersey, she had edged her stool up the keyboard, until Marcus was sitting on the window-sill.
Then, when he had showed her some fingering, she had put her other hand over his, imprisoning it and murmuring: ‘My mother used to know your father. She said he was seriously wicked.’
‘I’m just seriously boring,’ said Marcus apologetically, turning his head so her kiss fell on his jawbone.
As she was leaving, she gave him a biography of Rachmaninov and a bottle of Moët.
‘See you next term. I’m going to get a terrific suntan skiing.’
He hadn’t the heart to tell her that her scent gave him asthma. Why hadn’t he kissed her back? She’d been so pretty. What would it have mattered?
Yesterday he had given a Chopin and Liszt recital at an up-market girls’ day-school, and afterwards signed two hundred autographs.
‘You wouldn’t like a job teaching music, Mr Black?’ the headmistress had asked skittishly. ‘I’m sure you’d cure our truancy problem overnight.’
Then she had given him a fee of seventy-five pounds.
