by Jilly Cooper
Refusing to admit this publicly, she later worked off her rage bellyaching about the state of the cottage and Flora’s tip of a room in particular, until even Marcus told her to shut up.
‘Bloody judgemental home,’ grumbled Flora, and promptly moved in with Viking for the weekend, neither emerging from the bedroom except to let Nugent out.
Every time Abby drove into Rutminster she was sent flying by delivery vans from Oddbins, the Pizza House or the Star of India belting the other way.
George just managed to forgive the rest of the RSO in time for the staff Christmas party, which also ushered in Centenary Year.
Miss Priddock supervised the food including a chocolate birthday cake with a hundred candles. The brass players blew up the balloons. Hilary was furious because Randy had taken a photograph of her surreptitiously reading The Scorpion and pinned it on the notice-board — life had been very hard since Lionel left — but with a martyred air she joined forces with Juno in decorating the band room.
Romance watchers also were aware that every time Juno put up pale blue paper-chains, George Hungerford seemed to materialize from the fifth floor to hold the ladder and admire her delicate ankles.
Flora, nervous her job might be in jeopardy, as a peace offering bought George a pair of musical socks decorated with santas and reindeers which played Jingle Bells’ whenever you pulled them up. As George made no comment, he obviously thought Flora was sending him up.
Hilary tartly refused her offer of help with the decorations so Flora retreated to the park to make a snow-woman waving a stick with Cherub. She didn’t know why she was feeling depressed, tiredness and post-too-many-coituses probably. Underneath she was miserable about hurting Abby and persuaded Dixie to ask Abby to take part in the Christmas party cabaret.
Abby was touchingly grateful.
‘What would you like me to do?’
‘What you do best. Play your violin and get young Marcus to accompany you. We’ll put you on late in the evening, give him time to get a bit oiled.’
The cabaret kicked off with Randy in a dark curly wig, with two melons stuck into the front of Clare’s black dress, coming on as Dame Hermione and screeching: ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth.’
Francis the Good Loser, who didn’t have to dress up at all came on as the drunken tramp who tried to outsing her.
Both were caterwauling away and the audience were holding their sides, when in stumped Blue in one of Miss Priddock’s tweed suits, wearing thick tights, brogues, a monocle and a pork-pie hat as Dame Edith. Having driven the tramp off with a hunting-whip she started chatting up Hermione.
‘You’re a lovely little filly, what does your DBE stand for?’
‘Dame of the Bottom Enormous,’ simpered Hermione. ‘I know that my Redeemer-’
‘Oh, cut that crap,’ boomed Edith. ‘I hear the shit’s hit the Fanny Cycle over the RSO. They’ll never get their Arts Council grant now.’
‘I’d rather have Hugh Grant,’ sighed Hermione. ‘I know that my-’
‘Shut up,’ repeated Edith. ‘Goodo, here come Gilbert and Sillyone to give us the low-down.’
Bellows of laughter, screams of joy and even tighter lips from Miles and Hilary, who was taking a lot of photographs, greeted the entrance of Viking. He was wearing a mauve-and-orange caftan, a grey wig with a lopsided bun, an even more lopsided bosom, sticking-out teeth from the joke shop and earrings made from school band cymbals which he crashed whenever he was making a point. He also kept greedily taking bites out of an enormous Christmas pudding.
‘I must have desserts,’ he announced, exactly capturing Gwynneth’s refined North London whine. ‘A bombe surprise a day keeps Hungerford away.’
Viking was followed by Dixie, in an identical caftan as goaty Gilbert. He was carrying an urn with the words ‘Clara’ on the side and wiping his eyes with a long ginger beard.
‘Hallo Sillyone,’ demanded Edith. ‘What’s in that urn?’
‘Don’t upset Gilbert,’ whispered Gwynneth. ‘His cycle, Clara, passed away last Wednesday. We’re off to scatter her ashes on Vinifred Trapp’s grave.’
‘I know that my Redeemer-’ squawked Hermione.
‘Actually not quite all Clara’s ashes,’ confided Gwynneth, as Gilbert gave a great sob. ‘Gilbert has donated her handlebars to a co-operative for battered push-bikes, so she can be recycled as intristing earrings to enable me to black a few more people’s eyes.’ Viking put down his pudding, stuck out his teeth and gave his cymbal earrings a great crash. Peering from the wings Flora saw that George was crying with laughter.
‘He is human, after all,’ she hissed to Abby.
‘What happened to Clara?’ enquired Dame Edith.
‘Battered to death by the Celtic Mafia,’ sobbed Gilbert. ‘They must be punished.’
‘Surely the Celtic Mafia are an ethnic minority and therefore exonerated from all blame,’ asked Hermione.
‘Certainly not,’ Gwynneth crashed her cymbals. ‘They are white, male and heterosexual, so it doesn’t count.’
‘Gimme their address,’ squealed Hermione.
‘Ah, here comes our favourite patron of the arts, Piggy Porker. Good evening to you, Piggy.’
‘This has gone too far,’ hissed Miles, to a crescendo of cheering and hysterical laughter, as a heavily padded grotesquely over made-up Flora, teetered on in blue stilettos and a sick-green spangled dress, snorting loudly, and waving a Parker’s carrier bag.
‘I quite agree,’ George wiped his eyes, ‘but it is bluddy funny.’
Somehow Flora achieved a wobbly curtsy.
‘Good evening, your dameships,’ she snorted. ‘Ay would so laike to create new looks for you both. Any face is improved by subtle make-up.’ And, reaching into her Parker’s bag, she slammed custard pies in Edith’s and Hermione’s faces.
‘I know that my Redeemer-’ screeched Hermione, spitting out cream and pastry.
‘Have you got a mirror? I don’t carry one,’ said Dame Edith.
‘You both look much younger,’ went on Piggy Parker. ‘I’ve come to invite you all to a brown tre-ouser event at Parker’s next week. My Sonny is… oh, here’s Sonny to tell you himself.’
Despite the yells of approval and laughter, no-one at first recognized the concave fop who minced in in a red tunic and floppy white trousers, because the face was almost entirely concealed by curtains of straggly hair.
‘I am the RSO’s composer-in-undesirable residence,’ fluted Sonny, crashing Viking’s earrings, ‘but it’s getting me nowhere because I’ve fallen madly in love with Marcus Black and he won’t return my calls.’
Marcus gave a gasp of horror and delight.
‘Abby, you bitch,’ he said.
‘It’s Abby,’ screamed Nellie. ‘That’s brilliant.’
‘I want him to play on my portable organ,’ Abby tried to make herself heard over the whistling, stamping and yells of approval.
But George was on his feet, sprinting out through the exit, round onto the stage, stopping the performance before Jerry could video anything more or Hilary take any more photographs.
‘I’m sorry that’s enoof,’ he shouted from the rostrum to equal boos and cheers. ‘Mrs Parker, Sonny, Gilbert and Gwynneth all said they might look in later and I for one don’t want the RSO committing pooblic suicide joost yet. I joost wish all you boogers would put as much creative energy into your music-making. But I have to admit it was bluddy foony.’
Packing the cast off to seats in the auditorium, he then congratulated the orchestra on some good concerts, but said it was high time they stopped behaving like hooligans.
‘We moost capitalize on Centenary Year to put the RSO in the black again.’
As was customary he then asked them to drink to their musical director.
Abby had pulled off her wig and her beard and ruffled her dark curls. A week of sleepless nights over Viking and Flora made her look pale and vulnerable.
‘You are a great orchestra,’ she said in a choked v
oice when the drunken cheers had died down. ‘And we’ve always programmed great composers, so if we’ve managed to make great music, I have only been the catalyst. Thank you for putting up with me.’
‘God, I feel a cow,’ said Flora, as Viking slid an arm round her shoulders. ‘Abby’s so lovely.’
‘She may not be so lovely when we go back to the cottage together later,’ murmured Viking.
Randy’s wife and his mother-in-law had descended unexpectedly to Christmas shop and intended to spend the night in The Bordello. Great armfuls of female underwear had been hastily chucked in the cellar. Viking had agreed to vacate his bedroom for Randy’s mother-in-law and planned an away fixture. Flora was extremely twitchy about Abby.
On rolled Miss Priddock’s cake on its trolley. The hundred candles were lit which set off the smoke alarm so five butch firemen suddenly appeared. Everyone was convinced they were a stripagram so they stayed on for the party to Nellie’s delight.
Rodney had sent six crates of Moët over as a Christmas present so everyone had plenty to drink. Very generously under the circumstances, Peggy Parker had given each member of the orchestra a turkey. Blue didn’t get a chance to speak to Cathie because Carmine was watching her, but he did manage to slip a little sapphire ring into the pocket of her coat hanging up in the Ladies and prayed she’d find it.
By eleven o’clock Marcus, slightly drunk and happy because he’d felt he’d comforted Abby a little in the last week, had lost his nerves enough to play the piano.
Not realizing how many people had stopped to listen and started to dance, he meandered through Gershwin and Cole Porter, then launched into a Seventies hit called ‘Madly in Love’ with Abby accompanying him swooningly on the violin.
What he didn’t realize was that Abby had persuaded Charlton Handsome to slip a recording mike in front of him which also picked up the ecstatic cheering and shouts for more at the end.
‘That recording’ll be worth a fortune one day,’ murmured Julian.
‘Boy plays like an angel,’ George said proudly to Miles, ‘I’m right glad we booked him.’
Abby and Marcus left soon afterwards because she was flying back to Philadelphia first thing the following morning. As Flora and Viking tottered out arm in arm several hours later, they found Eldred on the H. P. Hall steps, weeping at the prospect of a wifeless Christmas.
‘I’m coming back to Woodbine Cottage on Boxing Day,’ Flora comforted him. ‘I’ll ring you, you must come and try our erratic cooking and Marcus, you and I can play chamber music. We could start off with the Mozart Trio.’
Flora only stopped crying over Eldred as Viking drove over Rutminster Bridge and pointed out a very drunk Davie Buckle hurling his turkey into the River Fleet, yelling: ‘Go on, you bastard, fly.’
Trying to creep in without turning on any lights, Flora and Viking knocked over an umbrella stand and fell over Abby’s cases already out on the landing. Abby pulled a pillow over her head in anguish. Would she ever sleep again?
It seemed only seconds later that she was woken up by horrifying screams. Wrapping her naked body in a towel, tiptoeing onto the landing, she could hear Viking saying, ‘It’s OK, sweetheart, I’m here, it’s OK.’
He sounded so tender and loving. Almost deranged with misery, Abby could hardly read her watch. Five-thirty. She had to leave for Heathrow in an hour, she might as well get up.
Tottering wearily downstairs, she found it was still dark. Rain was rattling against the windows, pounding away the last patches of snow on the lawn. As she filled up the kettle, she heard piteous mewing. Frightened away earlier by Nugent, but seeing a light on, Sibelius had jumped onto the ledge and was squashing his drenched fur against the window-pane.
‘Oh, poor baby.’ Abby opened the window and, whipping off her towel, began to dry him, crooning how much she was going to miss him, patting his piebald face, squeezing water out of his furry tail.
Only when he was purring and almost dry did she hear a wolf-whistle and whipped round. To her horror, lounging in the doorway, wearing only jeans and a highly amused smirk on his evil, debauched face was Viking. She had no idea how long he’d been there.
‘What in hell are you doing?’ she howled. ‘Ouch!’ she screamed as a terrified Sibelius dug his claws into her breasts.
‘I’ve just come down to make a cup of tea, Flora had a nightmare,’ said Viking.
‘Called Viking O’Neill,’ sobbed Abby.
Seizing her towel, crashing against the door to avoid touching him, she fled upstairs.
Poor Sibelius was mewing again, hoping for an early breakfast. Switching on the kettle, Viking picked him up. His face was expressionless, as burying it in the cat’s fur, he breathed in Abby’s scent.
Depressed that Abby seemed almost suicidal when he got up to wave her off, Marcus was cheered when the post brought a Christmas card from Taggie, containing three hundred pounds, smuggled out of her private account. But it didn’t make up for not hearing from Rupert, and Marcus was so cast down by an enchanting photograph in the Daily Express of Rupert, Taggie, Xav and Bianca arriving in Monhaut for a skiing Christmas, that Flora persuaded him to come home to Paradise and stay with her parents.
‘I shall be playing the referee’s whistle, so you can accompany me. We must drop off a bottle of whisky on the way for poor Eldred.’
Despite Viking ringing every day from Dublin, Flora was ashamed how thrilled she was to hear that Helen’s Christmas with Rannaldini’s ex-wives and brat-pack had been a disaster. She had never been gregarious, and Rannaldini’s endless sexual games had absolutely horrified her.
‘I could have told you Helen of Troilism wasn’t a viable proposition,’ quipped Flora.
Marcus was demented.
‘I should have gone out there to protect her.’
What Helen hadn’t told him was that for Christmas Rannaldini had given her a blank cheque to have her face, breasts and bottom lifted.
‘But you said in Prague you loved me as I am,’ sobbed Helen.
‘I did, and I know it will hurt dreadfully,’ purred Rannaldini, ‘but I want you to be even more beautiful.’
Also if Helen was confined to barracks recovering from surgery, it would give him more free time.
FORTY-FOUR
After their fortnight off the RSO sank into deep gloom. Life seemed to be summed up by Francis’s turkey which he had forgotten to take home and which was found in the band room under Nellie’s camisole top belching forth maggots.
Francis had other things on his mind. His house had been repossessed and he had moved into a council flat.
‘My children are on free dinners,’ he said wearily. ‘My milkman earns more than I do.’
Mary-the-mother-of-justin was horrified to find she was pregnant. Her husband had lost his smart job in television, and was at home looking after Justin and giving Mary a lot of grief.
Everyone except Carmine, Hilary and Juno had overspent at Christmas, couldn’t pay their bills and were chasing after fewer teaching jobs as the education departments slashed the music grants to colleges and schools.
Flora was delighted to have a letter from Eldred thanking her for the Christmas bottle of whisky, but worried that she got no answer when she kept ringing to invite him to supper. Finally police broke in on 4 January and found Eldred had been dead for a week from an overdose.
The empty bottle of whisky was at his feet, he was clutching his clarinet and the Mozart Trio, which he had obviously been planning to play with Flora and Marcus, was on the music-stand. The gramophone was still on — he had been listening to one of his old records.
‘If he hadn’t had his coffee black, people would have known from the milk bottles,’ sobbed Flora. ‘If I’d rung earlier I might have saved him.’
Everyone was too stunned and ashamed to oppose Hilary when she immediately applied for Eldred’s job of First Clarinet. She was soon busy auditioning candidates for Second Clarinet.
‘One should intercept them at the H.P. Hall
gate,’ said Viking, ‘hissing: “escape while you can, don’t work with that bitch.”’
With her step-up to section leader, Hilary’s bossiness increased a thousand-fold. She was singing madrigals regularly with Miles, Gwynneth and Gilbert. Jogging round the Close with Miles kept her in good shape for running to him if there was any trouble.
The only good thing about Eldred’s death was that Abby and Flora made it up, united in their distress. Abby had already brought Flora some rosin, mixed with meteor dust, back from America as a Christmas present. Flora, more generous and much more guilty, had given Abby a scarlet cashmere polo-neck. She also tried to play down her raging and continuing affaire with Viking. Viking, as part of his ‘exorcize’ campaign, had given Flora a toy black sheep for Christmas called Rannaldini.
‘You’ve got to meet it head on, darling.’
Abby pretended she was no longer interested in Viking but, as a post-Christmas fitness regime, took to jogging round the lake. On her first Thursday back, her progress was impeded by the dustcart outside The Bordello. She nearly fell down a rabbit hole, as Viking hurtled out barefoot and just in jeans, his eyes swollen and practically closed with sleep, waving a twenty-pound note to persuade the dustmen to remove the battalions of empties.
As she jogged home, Abby could see Viking, Mr Nugent and all the dustmen across the lake, still standing outside The Bordello clutching beer cans and laughing uproariously. As a result Woodbine Cottage’s dustbins weren’t emptied until midday.
‘Viking’s teaching my lad the ’orn,’ boasted one of the dustmen. ‘He finks the world of Viking.’
‘His hobby seems to be ornithology,’ said Abby sourly.
The orchestra’s black gloom was not improved by increasingly sinister rumours of an intended merger between the CCO and the RSO flying around like seagulls above a plough. Cotchester Ballet Company, accompanied by the CCO, had been staging popular classics during the school-holidays and had pinched a large chunk of the RSO’s audience.
One Tuesday in the middle of January, George summoned Abby to his office. He was in a bad mood anyway. An ancient sitting tenant was frustrating his attempts to convert four adjacent freeholds in Park Lane into a splendid office block which would retain the early nineteenth-century façade. When the old biddy rejected a cash offer, George moved the heavies in to frighten her, whereupon she had called up the Daily Mirror, who had chewed George out in a double-page spread that morning.
