by Jilly Cooper
George pulled no punches therefore when he told Abby the orchestra’s deficit was the largest ever. To win the audiences back they must ‘cross over’ which meant programming Gershwin, Rodgers and Hammerstein and other non-classical music in the second half.
Abby was appalled.
‘We’re a symphony orchestra, for Chrissake.’
‘Not for much longer. It’s the only way we might survive. And I’m planning a huge gala centenary concert in May. I’ve already got feelers out for Dancer Maitland and Georgie Maguire.’
‘They’ll break the bank for starters. You know Georgie’s Flora’s mother?’
If George didn’t, he wasn’t going to admit it.
‘Can’t hold that against the poor woman,’ he said nastily. ‘Come in, Miles.’
Looking sanctimonious and disapproving, Miles sat down on a high-backed chair with his knees rammed together, and handed George some faxes. The first was a blank page from the Arts Council.
‘Is this supposed to be our next year’s grant?’ demanded George.
Miles smiled thinly.
‘The first page didn’t print out.’
The second page did and turned out to be a furious letter from Gilbert plus a photostat of a newspaper photograph of himself, Gwynneth, Peggy Parker and Sonny as portrayed by Dixie, Viking, Flora and Abby in the Christmas cabaret. Someone had obviously leaked it to the Rutminster Echo. The urn Viking was brandishing with ‘Clara’ written clearly on the side, had particularly offended Gilbert.
Just for a second George’s lips twitched, then he read on.
Now we know what your musicians think both of the Arts Council and their most generous patron. And when am I going to receive compensation for my cycle?
‘It was a bit of harmless fun,’ protested Abby.
‘Not harmless with next year’s grant about to be handed out,’ snapped George.
‘That bitch Hilary must have leaked it; she was taking photographs the whole time.’
‘Hilly wouldn’t do a thing like that,’ spluttered Miles. ‘Hilly only thinks of the good of the RSO, unlike some.’
‘Hilly’ now, thought Abby, they are getting thick.
Fortunately John Drummond chose that moment to seriously endanger a fifty-thousand-pound Perspex model of a neo-Tudor shopping precinct as he weaved round it. Landing with a thud on George’s knee, he started shredding Gilbert’s fax with his paws.
Abby burst out laughing, but was brought sharply back to earth by Miles, accusing her of taking no interest in the orchestra’s educational projects.
‘We must make musical excellence available to the widest possible audience,’ he added pompously.
‘As the last major educational project the RSO got involved in,’ snapped Abby, ‘was a search for Respighi’s Birds in the Forest of Dean, and Randy and Dixie and four schoolgirls vanished for over a week, I don’t figure this is feasible in January. They’d all die of hypothermia.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said George, wincing as Druramond’s claws punctured his pin-striped thighs.
‘Anyway I haven’t got the time,’ countered Abby, ‘I’ve got far too much repertoire to learn.’
‘If we switched to more popular fare,’ Miles cracked his fingers, ‘you’d know it already.’
‘And you could start,’ George added curtly, ‘by wasting less time with Flora Seymour — she’s a pernicious influence.’
George had not forgiven Flora for Alphonso’s case, Gilbert’s bike or the musical socks which had played ‘Jingle Bells’ when he’d absent-mindedly tugged them up during a crucial meeting with the Department of the Environment.
‘She’s not your greatest fan either,’ said Abby disloyally.
‘Well, she better watch her back.’
‘Rather hard,’ said Miles bitchily, ‘when she Spends so much time on it. Nor did she help matters by suggesting in her letter of apology to Gilbert Greenford that he should replace Clara with a Harley Davidson.’
Abby laughed.
‘It is not funny,’ said Miles primly. ‘And as Musical Director you ought to be seen to do more for charity.’
Abby lost her temper.
‘All my spare cash, OK, goes to the Cats Protection League, and I don’t mean old tabby cats either,’ Abby glared pointedly at Miles. ‘Get off my back both of you.’
All the Perspex models trembled and John Drummond shot up the brushed suede wall as she walked out slamming the door.
Cooling down, she wandered into the general office and learnt from the notice-board that the RSO were currently doing a project at St Clement’s Primary School. As there was no rehearsal that morning she decided to pop in on the way home.
She was not cheered, switching on the car radio, to hear Hugo playing the violin solo in Mozart’s SinJonia Concertante.
‘That was the CCO, one of our great little orchestras,’ said Henry Kelly.
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Abby.
It had been raining for days. The River Fleet had flooded its banks, St Clement’s playing-fields were under water, inhibiting outdoor activity, which probably explained the unholy din issuing from the building.
When the secretary directed her to a far-off classroom, however, Abby was flabbergasted to find Viking perched on the edge of a desk telling a group of enraptured eight year olds about the French horn. They were engaged in a project on Rutminster in the seventeenth century.
‘Charles, the King of England, spent a lot of time fighting,’ Viking was saying. ‘And in the end he had his head chopped off, probably because his hair was longer than mine.’
The children laughed.
‘But, on his day off, he often enjoyed a day’s hunting in the Blackmere Woods and used a horn to sommon his hounds.’
Picking up his horn, Viking blew pa, pa, pa, pa on it.
‘This was a sound that the dogs could hear all over the forest.’
Nugent, who was sitting beside a little boy in a wheelchair, put his head on one side.
Seeing Abby, Viking gave a brief nod.
‘You can play the horn on anything,’ he went on, producing a piece of hose pipe from a Gap carrier bag.
Coiling it up, he handed one end to the little boy in the wheelchair and then played ‘God Save the Queen’ on the other.
Finally he made the children shriek with laughter by opening the teacher’s big handbag, which she’d left on top of the piano, and magicking out a red suspender belt, a pair of black lace knickers, a banana, a fluffy toy monkey, who pretended to eat the banana, and finally a huge bag of toffees which he handed round the class.
The teacher, who had a lot of freckles and a sweet open face, was clearly bats about him, too.
‘Viking’s a natural with kids,’ she told Abby. ‘Joey in the wheelchair’s really come out of himself since he’s been visiting us. These are the pictures they’ve been drawing.’ Proudly she pointed to a mural of Cavaliers, horses, jolly hounds, trees, wild flowers and a deer miles away with no chance of getting caught.
‘When that bully Carmine Jones came to teach an older class about the trumpet,’ the teacher lowered her voice, ‘they gave him such a rough ride, he came out nearly in tears.’
‘Could they give me their secret?’ sighed Abby.
As the bell went, Viking told the children they’d all got to make a valentine for their teacher.
‘Bye, sweetheart,’ he added, kissing her, ‘I’ll call you.’
Outside it was still raining and Viking tipped a black wool cap over his nose. It was a Christmas present from Rodney, who knew how Viking hated getting his hair wet because it kinked so unbecomingly. There had been rows in the past because Viking kept pinching Miss Priddock’s flowered sou’wester to go to the pub.
‘Let’s go and have a drink,’ he said, putting his arm through Abby’s.
The pub garden was filled with aconites and snowdrops. A hazel tree draping its sulphur-yellow catkins over the gate, like Zeus in a shower of gold waiting for Danaë, reminded Abby o
f Viking.
The pub was warm and dark. As she took refuge on a corner seat, she was glad she was wearing her new red cashmere polo-neck, but she was determined not in any way to betray to Viking how desperately she fancied him.
‘Thanks,’ she accepted a large glass of white wine, deliberately not allowing their fingers to touch.
Having downed a third of a pint of beer and wiped the froth off his lips with the back of his hand, Viking sat down at right angles to her, long legs so wide apart his knee nearly grazed hers, staring her out in amusement.
‘Well?’
‘That was kinda impressive,’ stammered Abby. ‘I never saw you as a Pied Piper.’
‘Music’s being left to die on its feet in schools,’ said Viking suddenly angry. ‘There’s no band any more, no singing, no hymns at compulsory Assembly. Kids can’t learn an instrument any longer unless their parents can afford the extra fees for lessons. Gradually the orchestras will die because there’ll no longer be a pool of bright young musicians to draw from.’
He shook his head, ‘Sorry, I’m getting heavy.’
‘No, it’s great,’ Abby was thrilled to glimpse a more serious Viking. ‘No thanks,’ she shook her head as he offered her a packet of crisps. ‘I’m also glad of a chance to talk. I wanted to discuss your section.’
‘You do?’
‘I just adore Cyril,’ went on Abby, ‘he was obviously a great musician once, but his lips have gone and he’s always drunk.’
‘That’s an exaggeration,’ said Viking coldly.
‘Well, he reeks of booze.’
‘He retires in four years’ time.’
‘Why can’t he teach?’
‘Too shy. Those kids today would make dog-meat out of him.’
Abby took a gulp of wine to strengthen her resolve.
‘He’s pulling back the orchestra.’
‘The orchestra’ll have to pull a bit harder then. I don’t want to discoss it.’
The most delectable smells were wafting in from the kitchen. Abby proceeded to lecture him and Viking to disagree with her, until a barmaid in a tight gentian-blue sweater and an emerald-green mini skirt came over with the menu.
‘D’you want to order, Viking?’
‘I’m not sure. That’s a fantastic sweater.’ Then, turning to Abby, asked, ‘Do you want some lunch?’
Abby shook her head irritably.
‘I’ve got far too much work.’
Viking smiled up at the waitress. ‘Can I have my bill?’
‘Irish stew’s delicious. I could do you a take-away.’
Viking eyed her up. ‘There are things I’d rather take away.’
The waitress giggled. ‘I’ll get you your bill.’
‘Can’t you pass anything up?’ snapped Abby.
She was still lecturing him about his profligate lifestyle as they reached the car-park. Viking took her car keys and opened her door.
‘I’m sorry to get heavy,’ muttered Abby, ‘but I don’t want you to hurt Flora, she was absolutely blown away by Rannaldini.’
Viking looked at Abby in that amused wicked testing way until she had turned as red as her jersey.
‘I won’t hurt Flora,’ he said softly. ‘I adore her, she’s a soul mate; stonningly gorgeous and amazingly loyal to you,’ he added sharply.
‘Then why do you do a number on every woman you meet?’
‘Don’t you think my numbers add up to the sum of human happiness?’ Turning, Viking waved to two of the barmaids who were still gazing at him out of the pub window.
‘I don’t know,’ said Abby crossly, ‘I guess you’re just a womanizer.’
‘I’m not a womanizer,’ said Viking, ‘I’m a charmer!’
Grabbing her, he kissed her on the mouth, sticking his tongue down her throat. Putting up absolutely no resistance Abby kissed him back until her pulses were thundering like the nearby mill-stream and she could hardly stand up.
But, as she pulled away to draw breath, Viking let her go.
‘Only way to shot you up, darling.’ Laughing, he sauntered off towards his car.
Back at the cottage, Marcus was listening to Pablo Gonzales playing Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto.
‘How perfect, how effortless, how beautiful. Oh Christ,’ he was saying.
He was slowly getting to grips with the concerto and only occasionally allowed himself to listen to recordings, terrified of being over-influenced.
‘It’s a bit quick,’ said Flora, who was combing tangles out of a protesting Scriabin, ‘I prefer Kissin — more languorous and tender.’
‘I like Kissin’s applause at the end,’ sighed Marcus.
‘What can we do this afternoon to stop me eating?’ pleaded Flora, who was on a diet. Whichever way she’d put her knickers on that morning they had felt back to front.
She suspected she was stuffing her face because Rannaldini had just won the coveted Conductor of the Year Award. Under his direction, the New World had won Orchestra of the Year, and Winifred Trapp’s Harp Concertos, newly released, were receiving ecstatic reviews. Flora couldn’t open a paper without Rannaldini’s face glaring out at her.
She didn’t feel any better when Abby floated in.
‘Just been having a drink with Viking.’
‘Where did you meet him?’ asked Flora.
‘He was teaching at St Clement’s — good to see him occupying his time profitably for a change, I cannot understand people who are super-talented and lazy.’
‘I can,’ said Flora, taking a tub of ice-cream out of the freezer.
‘And don’t you get mad at the way he chats up every woman he meets?’
‘No-oh,’ said Flora, seizing a spoon.
‘Viking’s attractive, I’ll grant you that. George chewed me out earlier this morning, but I guess underneath his animosity, he’s kinda attracted to me, like Viking is, or he wouldn’t bully me so much.’
‘That’s a false argument,’ said Flora with her mouth full. ‘Carmine bullies Cathie.’
‘I figure George would be a better bet than Viking,’ reflected Abby.
‘Georgie, Porgie, Black Pudding and Pie,’ Flora took another large spoonful. ‘If it was a choice between Mr Wrong but Romantic O’Neill and Mr Right but Repulsive Hungerford, I know who I’d choose.’
‘It’s weird; George doesn’t like you either,’ said the ever-tactful Abby.
Marcus winced. He wished Abby’s almost pathological jealousy of Flora didn’t make her so bitchy. He knew that she’d regret this conversation later.
‘Oh hell,’ said Flora, miserably, looking down at the empty ice-cream tub and chucking it into the sink. The telephone rang.
‘It’s Mr Wrong but Romantic,’ a returning Marcus gave a faint smirk, ‘for Flora.’
‘I’ve just kissed Abby,’ were Viking’s first words.
‘I guessed,’ said Flora.
‘She was listing my shortcomings.’
‘Your comings are never short.’ Flora was happy to hear Viking’s relieved laughter.
‘I love you and need you,’ he begged, ‘come over at once. I’d come and collect you, but I don’t want any more lectures.’
Abby couldn’t hide her exasperation.
‘Tell Viking to keep that damn dog under control. He’s always round here upending dustbins, just like his master.’
Appassionata. FOURTH MOVEMENT
FORTY-FIVE
Cash crisis followed cash crisis throughout the winter. Bad weather kept audiences away in droves. George told the orchestra they might even have to take cuts in salaries. Two more players had their houses repossessed and moved into awful rented rooms where people banged on the wall if they practised. A bass player, a cellist and one of the Second Violins left and were not replaced.
Even Julian was downcast. ‘We’ll be a string quartet at this rate,’ he said gloomily.
Flora’s answer to her bank manager was to tell Miles she had an appointment with the dentist in Harley Street and to go buski
ng on the South Bank. One of Viking’s mates at the London Philharmonic Orchestra had arranged for her to have a slot.
She chose a horribly cold grey morning and had great difficulty in getting out of bed. Returning to earth after making love, slumped on her back, fingers resting on her forehead, she glanced sideways at the watch on her wrist, worried about missing the train, and saw that instead of figures and hands the dial was filled with roses reflected from the curtains of Viking’s four-poster
‘Time ceases to exist when I’m with you,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘It’s turned to roses. You’ve made me terribly happy,’ she added, kissing him, ‘I’m so grateful.’
Viking drove her to Rutminster Station. Then, casually as the train was moving out, he said: ‘How about you and me getting our own place together?’
‘D’you think Nugent could learn to love Scriabin?’
‘Will you ever be serious?’
‘I’d like it, love it,’ stammered Flora. ‘It’s just such a surprise. As long as I can pay my way — I don’t want to be a kept woman.’
‘You can be a capped woman then.’ Removing Rodney’s cap, Viking plonked it on her head. ‘Be careful, if anyone asks you for a drink, say no.’
‘I love you,’ said Flora and, despite the cold, stayed watching him until he was out of sight.
London was much colder than Rutminster. Flora felt so sorry for the shivering sweeps of purply-blue crocuses in the parks and the almond trees whose pink blossom, forced out by a mild January, was already being scattered by a vicious wind.
The newsagents’ windows, scarlet with Valentine Day displays, provided the only cheerful note. She must buy a really gorgeous card for Viking, and a big jokey one for Mr Nugent from Scriabin. She couldn’t believe he’d asked her to move in with him, but allowed her thoughts to wander happily. He was so good with kids, he’d make a brilliant father and Flora O’Neill sounded so much more romantic than Flora Seymour. Oh God, let her not be too presumptuous.
