his hounds.’
Picking up his horn, Viking blew pa, pa, pa, pa on it.
‘This was a sound that the dogs could hear all over the forest.’
Nugent, who was sitting beside a little boy in a wheelchair, put his head on one side.
Seeing Abby, Viking gave a brief nod.
‘You can play the horn on anything,’ he went on, producing a piece of hose pipe from a Gap carrier bag.
Coiling it up, he handed one end to the little boy in the wheelchair and then played ‘God Save the Queen’ on the other.
Finally he made the children shriek with laughter by opening the teacher’s big handbag, which she’d left on top of the piano, and magicking out a red suspender belt, a pair of black lace knickers, a banana, a fluffy toy monkey, who pretended to eat the banana, and finally a huge bag of toffees which he handed round the class.
The teacher, who had a lot of freckles and a sweet open face, was clearly bats about him, too.
‘Viking’s a natural with kids,’ she told Abby. ‘Joey in the wheelchair’s really come out of himself since he’s been visiting us. These are the pictures they’ve been drawing.’ Proudly she pointed to a mural of Cavaliers, horses, jolly hounds, trees, wild flowers and a deer miles away with no chance of getting caught.
‘When that bully Carmine Jones came to teach an older class about the trumpet,’ the teacher lowered her voice, ‘they gave him such a rough ride, he came out nearly in tears.’
‘Could they give me their secret?’ sighed Abby.
As the bell went, Viking told the children they’d all got to make a valentine for their teacher.
‘Bye, sweetheart,’ he added, kissing her, ‘I’ll call you.’
Outside it was still raining and Viking tipped a black wool cap over his nose. It was a Christmas present from Rodney, who knew how Viking hated getting his hair wet because it kinked so unbecomingly. There had been rows in the past because Viking kept pinching Miss Priddock’s flowered sou’wester to go to the pub.
‘Let’s go and have a drink,’ he said, putting his arm through Abby’s.
The pub garden was filled with aconites and snowdrops. A hazel tree draping its sulphur-yellow catkins over the gate, like Zeus in a shower of gold waiting for Danae, reminded Abby of Viking.
The pub was warm and dark. As she took refuge on a corner seat, she was glad she was wearing her new red cashmere polo-neck, but she was determined not in any way to betray to Viking how desperately she fancied him.
‘Thanks,’ she accepted a large glass of white wine, deliberately not allowing their fingers to touch.
Having downed a third of a pint of beer and wiped the froth off his lips with the back of his hand, Viking sat down at right angles to her, long legs so wide apart his knee nearly grazed hers, staring her out in amusement.
‘Well?’
‘That was kinda impressive,’ stammered Abby. ‘I never saw you as a Pied Piper.’
‘Music’s being left to die on its feet in schools,’ said Viking suddenly angry. ‘There’s no band any more, no singing, no hymns at compulsory Assembly. Kids can’t learn an instrument any longer unless their parents can afford the extra fees for lessons. Gradually the orchestras will die because there’ll no longer be a pool of bright young musicians to draw from.’
He shook his head, ‘Sorry, I’m getting heavy.’
‘No, it’s great,’ Abby was thrilled to glimpse a more serious Viking. ‘No thanks,’ she shook her head as he offered her a packet of crisps. ‘I’m also glad of a chance to talk. I wanted to discuss your section.’
‘You do?’
‘I just adore Cyril,’ went on Abby, ‘he was obviously a great musician once, but his lips have gone and he’s always drunk.’
‘That’s an exaggeration,’ said Viking coldly.
‘Well, he reeks of booze.’
‘He retires in four years’ time.’
‘Why can’t he teach?’
‘Too shy. Those kids today would make dog-meat out of him.’
Abby took a gulp of wine to strengthen her resolve.
‘He’s pulling back the orchestra.’
‘The orchestra’ll have to pull a bit harder then. I don’t want to discoss it.’
The most delectable smells were wafting in from the kitchen. Abby proceeded to lecture him and Viking to disagree with her, until a barmaid in a tight gentian-blue sweater and an emerald-green mini skirt came over with the menu.
‘D’you want to order, Viking?’
‘I’m not sure. That’s a fantastic sweater.’ Then, turning to Abby, asked, ‘Do you want some lunch?’
Abby shook her head irritably.
‘I’ve got
Viking smiled up at the waitress. ‘Can I have my bill?’
‘Irish stew’s delicious. I could do you a take-away.’
Viking eyed her up. ‘There are things I’d rather take away.’
The waitress giggled. ‘I’ll get you your bill.’
‘Can’t you pass anything up?’ snapped Abby.
She was still lecturing him about his profligate lifestyle as they reached the car-park. Viking took her car keys and opened her door.
‘I’m sorry to get heavy,’ muttered Abby, ‘but I don’t want you to hurt Flora, she was absolutely blown away by Rannaldini.’
Viking looked at Abby in that amused wicked testing way until she had turned as red as her jersey.
‘I won’t hurt Flora,’ he said softly. ‘I adore her, she’s a soul mate; stonningly gorgeous and amazingly loyal to you,’ he added sharply.
‘Then why do you do a number on every woman you meet?’
‘Don’t you think my numbers add up to the sum of human happiness?’ Turning, Viking waved to two of the barmaids who were still gazing at him out of the pub window.
‘I don’t know,’ said Abby crossly, ‘I guess you’re just a womanizer.’
‘I’m not a womanizer,’ said Viking, ‘I’m a charmer!’
Grabbing her, he kissed her on the mouth, sticking his tongue down her throat. Putting up absolutely no resistance Abby kissed him back until her pulses were thundering like the nearby mill-stream and she could hardly stand up.
But, as she pulled away to draw breath, Viking let her go.
‘Only way to shot you up, darling.’ Laughing, he sauntered off towards his car.
Back at the cottage, Marcus was listening to Pablo Gonzales playing Rachmaninov’s
‘How perfect, how effortless, how beautiful. Oh Christ,’ he was saying.
He was slowly getting to grips with the concerto and only occasionally allowed himself to listen to recordings, terrified of being over-influenced.
‘It’s a bit quick,’ said Flora, who was combing tangles out of a protesting Scriabin, ‘I prefer Kissin — more languorous and tender.’
‘I like Kissin’s applause at the end,’ sighed Marcus.
‘What can we do this afternoon to stop me eating?’ pleaded Flora, who was on a diet. Whichever way she’d put her knickers on that morning they had felt back to front.
She suspected she was stuffing her face because Rannaldini had just won the coveted Conductor of the Year Award. Under his direction, the New World had won Orchestra of the Year, and Winifred Trapp’s
She didn’t feel any better when Abby floated in.
‘Just been having a drink with Viking.’
‘Where did you meet him?’ asked Flora.
