Appassionata

Marcus laughed. Sonny flounced off.

‘No-one looks prettier in tails than you do,’ said Flora in delight.

‘Or in black than you.’

There was a sparkle in her eyes that Marcus hadn’t seen for years.

As he tugged the maidenhair fern from behind a white carnation, graciously presented to him by Peggy Parker, he added: ‘Someone will have to turn the pages for me.’

‘I shall be hidden among the violas, thank God, and if the audience pelts us with tomatoes I hope they put basil on them.’

As Sonny had written in no trombone parts, Dixie volunteered for the job as page-turner, but, having been boozing all day, he couldn’t take it seriously.

‘Exciting having off-stage cow-bells,’ murmured Marcus, as they hovered in the wings.

‘Particularly when it’s conducted by an on-stage cow,’ said Dixie, as Sonny minced out of the conductor’s room and swept him and Marcus onto an exceedingly crowded platform.

There were overhead mikes for Marcus and each section, and bigger mikes dotted around the auditorium for general ambience. Sonny gave a little fluting speech, reminding the audience they were taking part in an experience as creatively significant as the first performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony or Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder.

‘Remember your clap or cough will be recorded for posterity, so make it loud, and wait for the red light.’

Dixie proceeded to belch loudly into Marcus’s microphone.

‘That’s the spirit,’ cried Sonny, who loved big butch Glaswegians, ‘but save it for the red light.’

The audience looked frightfully excited, delighted to have something as beautiful as Marcus to gaze at if the music became too demanding.

On came the red light, up started the atrocious din. Dixie couldn’t stop laughing particularly when the lavatory chains wouldn’t pull in time, and the audience, having been exhorted by Sonny to cough as much as possible, found they couldn’t stop. Viking and Barry the Bass rang each other up on their mobiles and chatted throughout.

Marcus was thumping away, trying to be heard over the uproar, when Little Cherub, racing back from xylophone to cow-bells, took a flying leap and fell flat on his face. Dixie was in such hysterics, he knocked Marcus’s score onto the floor, and picking it up, shoved it back upside-down by mistake.

Flora had also chosen that moment to wriggle out of her black mantilla. Viking was not the only musician to be distracted by the beauty of her shoulders. Dixie was so mesmerized, there was no way Marcus could attract his attention to put his music the right way up. The only answer was to ad lib, plink-plonking away to the end. Immediately the audience leapt to their feet applauding wildly so that their clap could be recorded for posterity.

‘Only getting up to relieve their piles,’ said Dixie scornfully.

But Marcus had slunk off the stage, petrified the wrath of Parker was going to descend on him for playing the wrong ending. Instead, after taking three bows, an ecstatic Sonny rushed into Marcus’s dressing-room, saying his work had never been so movingly interpreted.

‘I wept. I could not understand how I could write such beautiful music. Mumsy, Mumsy,’ cried Sonny, as Peggy swept in in a mauve satin marquee, ‘I am going to write a concerto for Marcus Black.’

Marcus cringed behind the upright piano.

But Peggy was prepared to let bygones be byge-owns, and presented Marcus with a large Christmas hamper.

‘You’ve done my Sonny proud, we look forward to receiving you at Rutminster Towers.’

Cherub also received a smaller hamper for being wounded in action, and the brass section were each given a bottle of champagne for pulling the chain so meaningfully.

Gilbert and Gwynneth were also in raptures. They had never seen a Rutminster audience enjoy themselves so much. At last music was being brought to the people. They made a point of seeking Marcus out and commending his sensitive playing.

‘We’re staying in the Close with Canon Airlie,’ whispered Gwynneth, ‘please drop in for carols and wassail later.’

‘You’re terribly kind,’ Marcus ducked to avoid a flying earring.

‘We’re going to hear a good deal more of Black,’ said Gilbert as he drifted out.

That boy’s done well, thought George, he made a diabolical piece of music sound almost good.

‘Could I have a word?’ he asked Marcus.

Ravel had once confessed sadly that Bolero was his only masterpiece and it contained no music. But after Sonny’s self-indulgent, mindless, ear-murdering junk, Bolero sounded glorious. Tommy Stainforth, Principal Percussion, joined later by Cherub, his nose bleed staining his white shirt like a boy soldier in battle, kept up the relentless hypnotic beat on their silver snare-drums, while sections and soloists took it in turns to snake languorously in and out of the one disturbingly beautiful tune.

‘The viola player’s problem in Bolero is keeping awake,’ Candy had warned Flora.

But instead, as the entire string section put down their bows and plucked their instruments like flamenco guitars, the sound made Flora burst with pride. She suddenly felt part of the great heartbeat of the orchestra as the music slowly swelled to a stupendous climax with the last clashing discord from the brass.

‘That’s definitely coitus non-interruptus,’ shouted Clare over the delirious torrent of applause. ‘I wish sex was as good as that.’

It will be with Viking, thought Flora, but when she glanced round, the First Horn’s chair was empty.

Faint with disappointment, suddenly exhausted, Flora could hardly lift her bow during the carols; and, as the last notes of ‘Adeste Fideles’ died away and the audience, now in party mood, called for encore, Viking was still missing.

‘Buggered off on some date,’ sighed Candy.

Meanwhile, outside the conductor’s room, Miles was having a row with Abby, Julian and a large black-and- white pantomime cow.

‘We rehearsed “The Shepherd’s Farewell” as an encore,’ Miles was saying angrily.

‘The audience expect Rodney’s cow,’ said Abby firmly. ‘She’s a Christmas fixture.’

The cow nodded in agreement and rubbed its furry head against Abby’s arm.

‘You can’t lower the tone,’ ordered Miles, ‘not with the Arts Council present.’

‘Bugger the Arts Council,’ said the back of the cow, doing a high kick. The front of the cow let out a high- pitched giggle, leaving no doubt as to its identity.

‘Shut up,’ hissed Miles glancing round in terror. ‘Gilbert and Gwynneth were backstage earlier. If you don’t play “The Shepherd’s Farewell”, Abby, heads will roll.’

The shouts of encore and the stamp of feet were growing in volume.

‘Come on, you guys,’ said Abby defiantly, waltzing off towards the stage.

‘Miserable old bugger,’ said the back legs, as the cow lumbered after her.

‘I’ll have you know, I’m still here,’ said Miles furiously.

Such screams of joy greeted the arrival of the cow on stage, that it was a few minutes before Abby could make herself heard.

‘Sir Rodney is really disappointed not to be here to wish you all a merry Christmas — ’ the audience gave a great cheer — ‘but he’s a lot better, right? And he hopes to be back on the rostrum some time next year.’

‘Bravo,’ shouted everyone.

‘Meanwhile, he’s sent you a very special soloist.’

The cow did a soft-shoe shuffle to more deafening cheers.

‘Good evening, Mrs Cow,’ continued Abby, ‘are you going to play us a tune?’

Slowly the cow nodded, batting her long black eyelashes.

‘What about some Mozart or perhaps some Beethoven?’

The cow shook her head.

‘Or some Schoenberg.’