Appassionata

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.