by Jilly Cooper
SIXTY-NINE
Up in the jurors’ room it was pandemonium.
‘He had a memory lapse in the first movement,’ intoned the Chinese judge who still had hopes of Han Chai.
‘The boy’s a genius. I never heard it so well played, he has a delicateness and a strongness the others have not,’ said the big Ukrainian.
‘The last two movements were impeccable, and so lyrical,’ said the French feminist, ‘Rannaldini sabotage Marcus the whole time.’
‘His manners to Rannaldini were most disrespectful,’ snapped Lili, seeing her Steinway, and her promised concert with the new super orchestra sliding away. ‘He wouldn’t even shake the Maestro’s hand.’
‘I prefer Natalia,’ agreed Ernesto, who had changed sides after Rannaldini offered him a Cartier watch and trials for all his pupils. ‘She and Rannaldini interacted so charmingly together.’
‘That’s because she has beeg teets,’ said Pablo, who was still sulkily searching for his Guinness Book of Records.
‘Can’t we have a serious drink, Blodwyn?’ grumbled Bruce Kennedy.
‘Not till you’ve finished judging,’ said Lady Appleton, pouring him a glass of Evian. ‘What d’you feel, Hermione?’
‘I would prefer Natalia,’ urged Hermione in her deep voice. ‘And it would be more politically correct to give it to a woman.’
This support had been drummed up by Rannaldini. While Natalia had been resting that afternoon, he had found half an hour to administer so much unpolitical correction to Hermione that she could hardly sit down.
Marcus’s supporters gazed at her stonily.
‘I thought it was jolly funny,’ snorted Dame Edith, blowing cigar smoke in Hermione’s pained face. ‘Rannaldini tried to scupper Marcus, and the boy rose magnificently to the occasion, just like his father always did. Boy’s a genius, and brave as a lion, nothing more to be said.’
Lady Appleton, however, had a lot more: the reputation of the competition was at stake.
‘Can one rely on Marcus to perform all those concerts?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Oh well, if you’re going for the safe candidate,’ boomed Edith, ‘we might as well settle on the American and go and get blotto.’
Jennifer, sitting in the next armchair, her mouth full of crisps, wagged in agreement.
The jury, however, bridled. They’d all read a piece in the Daily Telegraph by Norman Lebrecht last Monday which accused today’s juries of rejecting genius, passion and true individuality in favour of reliability and predictability.
‘Marcus ’as a voice all his own, a radiance beyond the notes,’ sighed Pablo. ‘What emotion, what power, what eenocence, what wiseness, what love.’
‘He had a memory lapse,’ repeated the Chinese judge, who was busy rewriting the chapter on the Schumann concerto on his laptop.
‘I still think Natalia has the — ouch!’ screamed Dame Hermione, as Ernesto surreptitiously pinched her on her pained bottom. ‘Just a twinge of neuralgia,’ she added hastily.
‘I shall resign if Marcus doesn’t ween,’ said Boris, taking his hand out of Deirdre’s, and speaking for the first time.
‘I, too,’ said Pablo.
‘And I shall resign if he does,’ said Rannaldini, sweeping in in such icy rage that everyone wilted. The ladies, who’d dog-paddled with him in the deep end, felt their resolve weakening.
‘We cannot let soloist deectate,’ hissed Rannaldini. ‘We must eradicate thees kind of hooliganism. I geeve heem every courtesy, every encouragement, see what he does in the middle movement, see ’Ow he reject my proffered hand? Never ’ave I been treated like that. It is all part of grudge match,’ he went on. ‘Marcus’s father ’ate me for marrying his ex-wife. The boy worsheep his mother — like many homosexuals he is wildly jealous of anyone she love. He is seek, he is unbalanced.’
‘Marcus is unbalanced?’ said Boris in amazement.
No-one dared laugh. Rannaldini’s rage was so controlled, yet so venomous.
How could I have let that man take over my orchestra? thought Dame Edith in horror.
‘Marcus is seek in body, too,’ went on Rannaldini. ‘Constantly ’e pull out of concert at the last moment because of asthma.’
‘We certainly must have a healthy candidate,’ said a worried Lady Appleton, ‘with all those wonderful engagements lined up.’
‘Under that kind of pressure, he will crack,’ said Rannaldini dismissively. ‘You see him go to pieces in the first movement. How boring he play Waldstein in early round. You make terrible mistake.’
Pablo Gonzalez could see the jury sliding away from him.
‘Marcus was zee most chivalrous accompanist,’ he pleaded. ‘Whenever the orchestra ’ave big solo, he just drop gently out of the limelight, that seem balanced to me. He get up from his deathbed, and all that scandal with Nemerovsky.’
‘I agree with Pablo. I never see finer example of grace under pressure,’ said the burly Ukrainian stubbornly.
‘Yes, I thought you found him attractive,’ said Rannaldini bitchily. ‘I saw you having a clandestine dreenk with him the other night.’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Lady Appleton glanced at the clock. ‘The news will be over in a minute or two, we must vote.’
There was a knock on the door of Marcus’s dressing-room. Outside stood a grey-faced piano tuner.
‘We’re busy,’ snapped Rupert.
‘I must have a private word with Mr Black,’ then, as Marcus went outside with him, the tuner stammered: ‘I know it’s too late to change anything, but I’ve got to tell you what I did to the piano on Wednesday.’
He then explained how he had slid a ball-bearing on top of the two concealed blocks of wood at the bass end of the keyboard, which divide when the soft pedal is pressed.
‘The ball-bearing just slipped down between the blocks, holding them apart,’ mumbled the tuner, ‘jamming the soft pedal for the rest of the Waldstein. When they called me back because you’d kicked up a fuss, all I had to do was roll out the ball-bearing with a long screwdriver when no-one was looking.’
‘How very ingenious,’ said Marcus, fascinated. ‘I couldn’t think what had happened. Could you do it to Benny next time?’
The piano tuner was shattered.
‘I can’t believe you’re taking it like this,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you who bribed me, but I’m going to pay back every penny of the money.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ advised Marcus. ‘Rannaldini can afford it. Thanks for telling me.’
Marcus couldn’t be bothered to say anything when he went back to his dressing-room. The whole confession had been a welcome interruption. He had been interviewed by the frightful James Vereker and now found the strain of waiting in a crowded dressing-room intolerable. People, including half of the orchestra, seemed to have poured in to congratulate him and drink Rupert’s drink.
A still furious Howie, and a still tearful Helen, who’d been bawled out by a foaming Rannaldini and banished from the conductor’s room, were the only dissenting voices.
Seeing Marcus whitening near to death, the shadows deepening under his eyes, Rupert kicked everyone out.
‘You OK?’
Marcus nodded. ‘It’s crazy. On the drive here, all that mattered was that I got through it,’ he blushed. ‘Now I seriously want to win.’
‘That’s my boy, you’re learning.’
‘Course you’ll win, you’re a star now,’ said Taggie.
Suddenly Marcus remembered Alexei warning him that stars could never belong to each other, that the true artist could only belong to the world, and the pain came roaring back. What did winning matter without Alexei? There was a knock on the door.
Chrissie had put on some crimson lipstick to match her turkey legs.
‘Ready, Martin? They are going to tell you the results beforehand in the green room.’
Rupert got to his feet, and straightened Marcus’s tie again. Taggie brushed down his tail-coat.
‘Good luck,
’ said Helen in a tight, trembling voice. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘By the way,’ murmured Rupert, then waiting till Helen had left, he drew a cellophane box containing a white flower out from behind the curtain. The envelope attached to it had been opened.
‘Someone chucked this in the bin.’ He handed the box to Marcus.
Ripping it open, Marcus nearly fainted, as he breathed in the sweet apple smell of philadelphus, instantly bringing back that baking hot June afternoon. There were only two lines on the card.
‘I was wrong. With love all is possible. I am very jealous of the world. Alexei.’
Seeing the incredulous joy on the boy’s face, Rupert removed the carnation from Marcus’s buttonhole and replaced it with the philadelphus.
‘Come on, Martin,’ grumbled Chrissie. ‘We can’t keep the Princess waiting. Although Lady Appleton will have told you the order beforehand do try not to show your disappointment when you file onto the platform as it spoils it for the audience. Anyway,’ she added, seeing Marcus’s face fall, ‘you’re way ahead in the NTV viewers’ poll.’
As he walked into the Green Room, Anatole greeted him in ecstasy.
‘I ween pub competition, I ween thees,’ he brandished a huge beer mug. ‘Knees up Muzzer Brown.’ He did a little dance.
‘Hush,’ chorused the NTV minions.
A strip of black velvet had been pinned to one of the Green Room walls. In front was a huge arrangement of lilies and chrysanthemums. On the table was a note saying:
‘James Vereker to interview winner in front of black velvet immediately after results.’
‘I dropped those flowers three times,’ observed a passing technician.
‘Hush,’ said Chrissie.
Lady Appleton cleared her throat.
‘I’ll give you the order back to front,’ she told the contestants, ‘starting with the lowest.’
‘Don’t forget to curtsy, Marcus, when you shake hands with the Princess,’ said Benny nastily.
Natalia was perfectly calm. She knew she had won. Rannaldini had told her so.
‘Knees up Muzzer Brown,’ sang Anatole.
As the six contestants filed onto the platform, sitting high up on the chairs that had earlier been occupied by the brass players, Marcus looked so white and stunned, Rupert knew with a terrible lurch of pity and disappointment he hadn’t won.
‘I’m so sorry,’ whispered Taggie.
‘It’s OK.’
Rupert took her hand. ‘What matters somehow is that for the first time he’s miraculously mine. I’m sorry I’ve been so vile today. I can always be relied upon to be a tower of gelignite in a crisis.’
‘I love you.’
‘Doesn’t Her Royal Highness look dignified? ‘sighed Peggy Parker, as the Princess, resplendent in Listermint-green taffeta and lots of diamonds, led a trail of local dignitaries in robes and furry burghers’ hats slowly up the centre aisle to take their seats on the platform.
‘And now our finalists in reverse order,’ said James Vereker, batting his dyed eyelashes at the Princess. ‘Lady Appleton will announce the winners.’
‘We’re just waiting for a signal from NTV,’ said Lady Appleton, her round pink face glowing like a harvest moon. ‘I’d just like to remind everyone that we judge the candidates on all three rounds, not just tonight’s nor yesterday’s efforts. All right, James,’ she smiled into the camera. ‘In sixth place, we have Han Chai.’
As the little Korean came dancing down the steps, looking so pretty and happy to be sixth, everyone decided she should have been placed higher and gave her a terrific reception.
‘Fifth from France, Mr Benjamin Basanovich,’ cried Lady Appleton.
Benny was absolutely livid, but he got an even louder cheer because everyone was so relieved he hadn’t won.
‘Fourth,’ Lady Appleton cleared her throat and rustled her notes, ‘our very popular contender from across the Atlantic.’
Still in his plaid jacket, Carl bounded down the steps two at a time, grinning broadly, thrilled to be meeting royalty, taking the Princess’s little hand in his two big ones.
‘Marcus is third,’ whispered an excited Flora to George and Trevor.
Then followed a long pause because the Princess was having such a long chat with Carl.
‘Oh, get on with it,’ yelled Dixie from the gallery.
‘Third prize,’ began Lady Appleton.
Here we go, at least he’s placed, thought Rupert.
‘Is our friend from Russia.’
‘Knees up Muzzer Brown,’ shouted Anatole, waving his beer mug, bouncing up to the Princess and, charming her just as much as he charmed the crowd, he kissed her hand.
Rannaldini glanced across at Natalia. A tear was trickling down her rosy cheek. Little darling, crying with happiness, he thought complacently. Soon he would be drinking champagne out of her and the cup.
The atmosphere in the hall crackled with excitement. Lady Appleton enjoyed her four-yearly moment of glory. George squeezed Flora’s hand till she winced.
‘I love you, I love you. Oh please God, make it be Marcus,’ she begged.
‘Second, a very worthy contestant, is our charming friend from Czechoslovakia, Natalia-’
But no-one heard her surname as Lady Appleton was drowned by a demented roar of joy that took the roof off, as the crowd realized the home side had won. On the strength of that they could now afford to feel sorry for Natalia as, battling with disappointment, the picture of desolation, she accepted her silver plate and allowed the kind Princess to mop up her tears.
The atmosphere was now a seething cauldron. A cheer rose and fell. Rupert hugged Taggie until her ribs cracked. The orchestra leaning over the gallery were yelling their heads off.
Boris was kissing Deirdre.
‘Zank you, zank you, my darling, you are not bloody bigot after all.’
‘He’s won,’ screamed Flora, holding George even tighter as a somewhat squashed Trevor barked his approval.
Up in the dress circle, a grinning Jennifer barked back.
At last there was silence.
‘And the winner of the 1995 Appleton Piano Competition-’ Lady Appleton smiled round.
‘You don’t need to be Inspector Morse to deduce that,’ bellowed Randy.
Even Lady Appleton laughed.
‘The winner of the 1995 Appleton,’ she repeated shakily, ‘is our own Marcus Campbell-Black.’
The Princess taking both Marcus’s hands had to shout to make herself heard.
‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve been so terribly ill. It’s a wonderful victory. You played so beautifully.’
‘And you look so beautiful,’ Marcus found himself blurting out.
The Princess was so sweet and after that he couldn’t remember anything she said until she handed over the little silver piano, as well as a huge cup.
‘Of course queers get on awfully well with women,’ sniffed Mrs Parker.
‘Oh shut up, you old monster,’ snapped Flora.
‘Speech,’ bellowed the orchestra.
Oh no, thought Taggie in anguish, remembering how Marcus had dried during a debate in front of the whole of Bagley Hall. He had never been able to string a sentence together in public.
But Marcus had taken the microphone and was waiting for a lull. He was whiter than the piano keys. A lock of damp auburn hair had fallen over his freckled forehead, he looked absurdly young. To speak now was far more terrifying than playing the Schumann, but he had to do it. What a beauty, and our own, thought the audience in raptures.
‘Your Royal Highness, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ gasped Marcus, fighting for breath, ‘I’d like to thank all the judges for giving me this amazing prize — ’ he waved the silver piano — ‘and the organizers, particularly Lady Appleton for — er — organizing such a marvellous competition, and Mrs Bateson for looking after me — and baking such terrific cakes and everyone at Northladen General for saving my life-’ There was a burst of cheering.
As he gained in confidence he had a voice just like Rupert’s, thought Flora.
‘I also want to thank my parents,’ Marcus went on steadily, ‘my mother and my stepmother, but, most of all, my father, Rupert Campbell-Black,’ deliberately he emphasized the ‘Campbell’. ‘It isn’t easy for parents to accept their son is a homosexual. And they’ve been absolutely terrific,’ he glanced in Rupert’s direction, ‘particularly my father.’
‘Oooooooh dear,’ mumbled Flora, smearing all her mascara as she wiped her shirtsleeve across her eyes.
Glancing sideways Taggie also saw the wetness of Rupert’s lashes. The silence was total.
‘And most of all,’ Marcus grinned up at the gallery, ‘I’ve got to thank the RSO, for playing so brilliantly today and being such a great orchestra.’
‘Tell that to the Arts Council,’ roared Dixie.
Marcus joined in the laughter. There was a volley of applause which faded because people wanted to listen. Aware that the cameras were rolling, unfazed that he was addressing millions of viewers, Marcus went on.
‘But this may be the last time you hear the RSO because they are being forced to merge with the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra. This means most of them will lose their jobs.’
‘That’s enough,’ snarled Rannaldini, who was already foaming like a pit bull.
‘I agree, Maestro,’ Lady Appleton rose to her feet.
The Princess, however, who was looking madly interested, stayed seated.
‘I’ve almost finished,’ Marcus raised his hand. ‘I only want to say the real heroine of this evening, Abigail Rosen, wasn’t allowed to be here.’ The orchestra gave another great cheer. ‘Because Abby was involved with me, she was sacked and not allowed to conduct her own orchestra today. Although I love her very much, I can’t marry her, because I couldn’t give her the happiness she deserves. No-one has done more to make the RSO the truly great orchestra you heard today.’ Marcus’s voice broke, but he just managed to finish. ‘I hope the ban will be lifted and Abby will get her job back. Thank you.’
The cheers were still echoing in his ears when he finally fought his way back to his dressing-room. A mad party was spilling out into the passage. Everyone was opening champagne bottles and celebrating. Mrs Bateson hugged him.
