Appassionata

in Centenary Year.

Miss Priddock supervised the food including a chocolate birthday cake with a hundred candles. The brass players blew up the balloons. Hilary was furious because Randy had taken a photograph of her surreptitiously reading The Scorpion and pinned it on the notice-board — life had been very hard since Lionel left — but with a martyred air she joined forces with Juno in decorating the band room.

Romance watchers also were aware that every time Juno put up pale blue paper-chains, George Hungerford seemed to materialize from the fifth floor to hold the ladder and admire her delicate ankles.

Flora, nervous her job might be in jeopardy, as a peace offering bought George a pair of musical socks decorated with santas and reindeers which played Jingle Bells’ whenever you pulled them up. As George made no comment, he obviously thought Flora was sending him up.

Hilary tartly refused her offer of help with the decorations so Flora retreated to the park to make a snow- woman waving a stick with Cherub. She didn’t know why she was feeling depressed, tiredness and post-too-many- coituses probably. Underneath she was miserable about hurting Abby and persuaded Dixie to ask Abby to take part in the Christmas party cabaret.

Abby was touchingly grateful.

‘What would you like me to do?’

‘What you do best. Play your violin and get young Marcus to accompany you. We’ll put you on late in the evening, give him time to get a bit oiled.’

The cabaret kicked off with Randy in a dark curly wig, with two melons stuck into the front of Clare’s black dress, coming on as Dame Hermione and screeching: ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth.’

Francis the Good Loser, who didn’t have to dress up at all came on as the drunken tramp who tried to outsing her.

Both were caterwauling away and the audience were holding their sides, when in stumped Blue in one of Miss Priddock’s tweed suits, wearing thick tights, brogues, a monocle and a pork-pie hat as Dame Edith. Having driven the tramp off with a hunting-whip she started chatting up Hermione.

‘You’re a lovely little filly, what does your DBE stand for?’

‘Dame of the Bottom Enormous,’ simpered Hermione. ‘I know that my Redeemer-’

‘Oh, cut that crap,’ boomed Edith. ‘I hear the shit’s hit the Fanny Cycle over the RSO. They’ll never get their Arts Council grant now.’

‘I’d rather have Hugh Grant,’ sighed Hermione. ‘I know that my-’

‘Shut up,’ repeated Edith. ‘Goodo, here come Gilbert and Sillyone to give us the low-down.’

Bellows of laughter, screams of joy and even tighter lips from Miles and Hilary, who was taking a lot of photographs, greeted the entrance of Viking. He was wearing a mauve-and-orange caftan, a grey wig with a lopsided bun, an even more lopsided bosom, sticking-out teeth from the joke shop and earrings made from school band cymbals which he crashed whenever he was making a point. He also kept greedily taking bites out of an enormous Christmas pudding.

‘I must have desserts,’ he announced, exactly capturing Gwynneth’s refined North London whine. ‘A bombe surprise a day keeps Hungerford away.’

Viking was followed by Dixie, in an identical caftan as goaty Gilbert. He was carrying an urn with the words ‘Clara’ on the side and wiping his eyes with a long ginger beard.

‘Hallo Sillyone,’ demanded Edith. ‘What’s in that urn?’

‘Don’t upset Gilbert,’ whispered Gwynneth. ‘His cycle, Clara, passed away last Wednesday. We’re off to scatter her ashes on Vinifred Trapp’s grave.’

‘I know that my Redeemer-’ squawked Hermione.

‘Actually not quite all Clara’s ashes,’ confided Gwynneth, as Gilbert gave a great sob. ‘Gilbert has donated her handlebars to a co-operative for battered push-bikes, so she can be recycled as intristing earrings to enable me to black a few more people’s eyes.’ Viking put down his pudding, stuck out his teeth and gave his cymbal earrings a great crash. Peering from the wings Flora saw that George was crying with laughter.

‘He is human, after all,’ she hissed to Abby.

‘What happened to Clara?’ enquired Dame Edith.

‘Battered to death by the Celtic Mafia,’ sobbed Gilbert. ‘They must be punished.’

‘Surely the Celtic Mafia are an ethnic minority and therefore exonerated from all blame,’ asked Hermione.

‘Certainly not,’ Gwynneth crashed her cymbals. ‘They are white, male and heterosexual, so it doesn’t count.’

‘Gimme their address,’ squealed Hermione.

‘Ah, here comes our favourite patron of the arts, Piggy Porker. Good evening to you, Piggy.’

‘This has gone too far,’ hissed Miles, to a crescendo of cheering and hysterical laughter, as a heavily padded grotesquely over made-up Flora, teetered on in blue stilettos and a sick-green spangled dress, snorting loudly, and waving a Parker’s carrier bag.

‘I quite agree,’ George wiped his eyes, ‘but it is bluddy funny.’

Somehow Flora achieved a wobbly curtsy.

‘Good evening, your dameships,’ she snorted. ‘Ay would so laike to create new looks for you both. Any face is improved by subtle make-up.’ And, reaching into her Parker’s bag, she slammed custard pies in Edith’s and Hermione’s faces.

‘I know that my Redeemer-’ screeched Hermione, spitting out cream and pastry.

‘Have you got a mirror? I don’t carry one,’ said Dame Edith.

‘You both look much younger,’ went on Piggy Parker. ‘I’ve come to invite you all to a brown tre-ouser event at Parker’s next week. My Sonny is… oh, here’s Sonny to tell you himself.’

Despite the yells of approval and laughter, no-one at first recognized the concave fop who minced in in a red tunic and floppy white trousers, because the face was almost entirely concealed by curtains of straggly hair.

‘I am the RSO’s composer-in-undesirable residence,’ fluted Sonny, crashing Viking’s earrings, ‘but it’s getting me nowhere because I’ve fallen madly in love with Marcus Black and he won’t return my calls.’

Marcus gave a gasp of horror and delight.

‘Abby, you bitch,’ he said.

‘It’s Abby,’ screamed Nellie. ‘That’s brilliant.’

‘I want him to play on my portable organ,’ Abby tried to make herself heard over the whistling, stamping and yells of approval.

But George was on his feet, sprinting out through the exit, round onto the stage, stopping the performance before Jerry could video anything more or Hilary take any more photographs.

‘I’m sorry that’s enoof,’ he shouted from the rostrum to equal boos and cheers. ‘Mrs Parker, Sonny, Gilbert and Gwynneth all said they might look in later and I for one don’t want the RSO committing pooblic suicide joost yet. I joost wish all you boogers would put as much creative energy into your music-making. But I have to admit it was bluddy foony.’

Packing the cast off to seats in the auditorium, he then congratulated the orchestra on some good concerts, but said it was high time they stopped behaving like hooligans.

‘We moost capitalize on Centenary Year to put the RSO in the black again.’

As was customary he then asked them to drink to their musical director.

Abby had pulled off her wig and her beard and ruffled her dark curls. A week of sleepless nights over Viking and Flora made her look pale and vulnerable.

‘You are a great orchestra,’ she said in a choked voice when the drunken cheers had died down. ‘And we’ve always programmed great composers, so if we’ve managed to make great music, I have only been the catalyst. Thank you for putting up with me.’

‘God, I feel a cow,’ said Flora, as Viking slid an arm round her shoulders. ‘Abby’s so lovely.’

‘She may not be so lovely when we go back to the cottage together later,’ murmured Viking.

Randy’s wife and his mother-in-law had descended unexpectedly to Christmas shop and intended to spend