Appassionata

‘Can you lend me the money for a taxi back to Rutminster?’

Grim-faced, Jack seized the telephone.

‘George, it’s Jack, Jack Rodway, Flora’s wiv me.’ Then, interrupting the torrent of abuse, snapped, ‘I don’t want the fuzz involved, Janice’d do her nut, and having seen the contents of Alphonso’s case, I can see why he don’t either. I’ll shunt Flora over to you as quick as possible.’

All Jack’s bonhomie had evaporated. He couldn’t wait to get Flora out of the house.

Beside Foxie, George had found a black dress, a pair of shoes, a sponge bag and the Selected Poems of Robert Browning, which he was flipping through, when Flora, very pale but defiant, arrived at his office.

‘How sad and bad and mad it was -

But then, how it was sweet,’ quoted George, throwing the book across the huge polished table. ‘Pretty sad, bad and mad, for a girl of your age to go to bed with a middle-aged roue like Jack Rodway.’

Watching Flora dive on Foxie, kissing him thankfully, he reflected bitterly on his missed night-cap with Hermione, who was off round the world already, who might have soothed his sad heart. He didn’t know if he would ever meet her again.

‘You’ll have to pay for Alphonso’s air ticket,’ he said harshly.

Flora was gathering up the rest of her belongings and chucking them into her case.

‘I’ll have to consult my lawyer,’ she said haughtily. ‘George Carman’s a friend of my mother’s.’

‘I’ll dock it off your salary then.’

‘I must have picked up Alphonso’s bag in the cathedral. It was all your fault — there was no band room for safe keeping, everything was jumbled together. I’m going to talk to Steve.’

Appealed to, the union decided management was in the wrong and Flora didn’t have to pay up, but Steve shook his head.

‘George hates anyone getting the better of him, Flora. I’m afraid you’re a marked woman from now on.’

FORTY

The RSO were highly amused by the annexing both of Jack Rodway and Alphonso’s case, and sang, ‘Pack up your troubles in a new kit bag,’ each time an increasingly irritated Flora came into the hall.

Although secretly delighted that Flora had got off with someone other than Viking, Abby was currently far more preoccupied with the recording of Rachel’s Requiem. It was her first CD as a conductor and for the RSO, and she was determined to trounce the CCO in next October’s Gramophone Awards if it killed her. Thank God, Boris was too immersed in King Lear to come down and interfere.

‘I leave it in your capable fingers,’ he told Abby. ‘Today I write vonderful aria: “Blow vind and crack your chicks.”’

Both, however, reckoned without the wrath of Piggy Porker. She was not going to put one hundred thousand pounds into the RSO centenary year, starting on 1 January, and provide half the money for the Requiem and Sonny’s Interruption if a blasphemer was at the helm. Miles, Canon Airlie and Serena Woodward, now known as ‘Princess Grace of Megagram’, who was producing the record, all backed her up, and so did George, when he saw the cash sum involved. Boris must conduct the Requiem he had written. He was also cheap because he liked to keep the adrenalin going by recording pieces straight through without any retakes as though they were live, so there were never any overtime problems.

They had, however, all reckoned without Julian who, in a midnight meeting, threatened to resign if Abby were supplanted, and without Boris, who flatly refused to co-operate.

‘Fuck off Parson from Portlock,’ he shouted when Miles rang, ‘Eef I break off now, I will lose Lear; all the characters, all the music vill slip away, it is best theeng I ever write. I try to forget Rachel and Requiem. Anyway I can’t do this to Abby who is a good friend.’

Nor did he want hassle from Astrid, who was wildly jealous of Abby, Rachel and anything to do with Rutminster.

‘Are you prepared to pay back your advance, if the record is pulled?’ asked Miles coldly.

Boris, who had just bought a little Polo for Astrid, and had the cheque bounced on him, said he was not.

‘You’ve got two days to mug up on the Requiem,’ ordered Miles. ‘And please catch a train on Sunday night, so you’ll be on time on Monday morning.’

Instead Boris caught an early train on Monday morning. It was a tedious union rule that no more than twenty minutes of music could be recorded in a three-hour session. But if he could finish the Requiem which lasted an hour in a day, the RSO would still get paid for a three-hour session tomorrow morning, and could go Christmas shopping or have a lie-in instead, and he could belt back to Astrid on a fast train this evening.

Passengers on the 7.05 to Rutminster were amazed to see the romantic-looking man with the upended Beethoven hair singing along to his frantic scribbling, covering an entire table for four with his papers.

‘With a Hey Ho, the vind and the rain,’ sang Boris.

He hadn’t bothered to look at the Requiem, and became so immersed in a possible baritone aria: ‘As flies to vanton boys, are we to the gods,’ that he forgot to get off at Rutminster, and only arrived at the recording studios, situated in a basement in the High Street, at quarter-past eleven.

Miles, who had to pay for the taxi, was hopping.

‘Who produce Requiem?’ Boris asked him sulkily.

‘Serena Westwood. She’s been waiting for you since half-past nine.’

Miles might well have poured petrol all over a smouldering Boris, who loathed being bossed about by women. Serena was as smilingly serene as her name, but Boris was convinced a barracuda lurked beneath her steel-grey wool dress. Abby at least was on the side of music and she and Boris could swear at each other in Russian.

Serena, who was now sitting in the control-room, had been immersed in the score all weekend. She had taken the precaution of providing paper cups in case Boris started smashing things. In front of her, at a mixing desk like a vast switchboard and being paid a fortune by the hour, sat Sammy, the recording engineer. Through a glass panel, they could both see a forest of microphones like silver-birch saplings. Around these were grouped the RSO, swelled today by numerous extras, who also had to be paid. Except for Hilary who was ostentatiously reading Villette, they had all done the crossword and read the latest instalment in the Royal Soap in their own and each other’s papers.

To irritate Flora, the Celtic Mafia were now exchanging viola jokes.

‘What’s the definition of a lady?’

‘Go on, Viking.’

‘A woman who can play the viola but doesn’t.’

‘Ha, ha, ha, ha.’

‘Once upon a time, Princess Diana met a frog,’ went on Viking. ‘The frog said, “If you give me a big kiss, ma’am, I’ll turn into a handsome viola player.” So Princess Diana put him in her pocket. “Whaddja do that for,” protested the frog. “You’ll be more use to me as a talking frog,” said Princess Diana.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ snarled Flora, over the howls of mirth.

Everything irritated her at the moment.