Appassionata

modesty the following morning one of George’s sharp builders noticed a huge crack in the ceiling over the stalls. Repairs would be lengthy and cost millions.

GALA IN JEOPARDY, trumpeted the Rutminster Echo.

Overnight George came neatly to the rescue, offering, as an alternative, his beautiful park. The previous owner had been a polo fanatic and had levelled a field behind the house. Here the multitudes could stretch out and be charged a hundred pounds a car. George’s builders were soon at work, knocking up a splendid stage and a pit for the orchestra. Venturer Television were covering the gala because their own chief executive was reading Peter and the Wolf and Classic FM would record it. Stands on either side of the stage would seat a thousand people and, in front of the stage, fold-up chairs stretched back for forty rows to join the masses on the polo field.

With tickets ranging from five hundred to fifty pounds and freebies for anyone George wanted to woo, he and the RSO stood to make a killing. George’s white-knight gesture was much applauded by the nationals and the Rutminster Echo. Readers’ letters, no doubt penned by the recipients of George’s backhanders, poured in condemning the H.P. Hall as a potential death-trap, urging that another smaller venue be found for the RSO.

‘Preferably in Cotchester,’ raged Flora to Viking.

‘George has turned the whole thing to his advantage. I bet his builders made that crack so he can pick up H. P. Hall even cheaper. I hope it pisses with rain on the day.’

But the luck of the devil held. After a beastly cold grey, dry blustery April, a heatwave hit England in the week running up to the gala.

The only thing that cheered Flora up was George’s memo on the notice-board typed by Jessica.

‘As the gala takes place on the eve of the Fiftieth Anniversary of VE Day, please note “God Save the Queer”, will be played.’

On the great day Rutminster Hall was patriotically decked with red, white and blue bunting. In deference to the soloists, Irish and Russian flags also hung motionless in the burning air alongside the Union Jack.

As a sweating, grumbling RSO settled down to an afternoon rehearsal under a white hot sun, caterers in red, white and blue striped marquees tried to keep flies off the food, Venturer Television checked camera angles and George’s minions touched up the balcony, already on stage for Romeo and Juliet.

‘Trust George to use overwrought iron,’ said Flora sourly, ‘that balcony’s more suited to a Weybridge hacienda. Where are the carriage lamps and the window-boxes of petunias?’

At least George’s taste hadn’t ruined the park which was lit by white hawthorn exploding like grenades, clumps of white lilac, foaming cow parsley and the candles of the towering horse chestnuts, whose round curves were echoed by plump sheep and their lambs grazing among the buttercups and big white clouds massing on the horizon. Through a gap in the trees, on the banks of the River Fleet, stood a temple of Flora.

‘Just think he owns all this, like Mr Darcy,’ sighed Candy.

‘Mr Nazi,’ snapped Flora. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t introduced peacocks yet.’

‘Why bother with our First Horn around?’ said Clare.

Viking, already bronzed and wearing only fraying denim shorts, was squeezing a lemon onto his hair to lighten it in the sun.

Marcus slumped in the stalls. A huge field of yellow rape on the horizon was wafting noxious pollen like chloroform towards him. Willow, birch and oak in the park, as well as all the blossom, were making it almost impossible to breathe. Only the desire to see Alexei had induced him to brave the rehearsal. He was bitterly ashamed that he had been so distracted yesterday, he’d forgotten to play at a wedding and the poor bride had come down the aisle to no music.

He had brought Flora’s Collected Byron with him, and found the original poem of ‘The Corsair’.

‘There was a laughing devil in his sneer,’ read Marcus.

He should have been at home working on Prokofiev’s Third but Abby had slid into her old trick of enlisting his help with the repertoire. The running order today was the Roman Carnival overture which had a beautiful solo for Cathie Jones; Georgie Maguire singing everything from Gluck to Gershwin; Declan reading Peter and the Wolf; the slow movement of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth because it had a beautiful solo for Viking, more songs from Georgie because Dancer Maitland had tonsilitis and finally Romeo and Juliet.

Abby was in a panic about conducting ballet. Rodney had been pragmatic when she called him.

‘They’re never in time, darling. Nemerovsky’s a frightful show-off, he’ll spin everything out as long as possible. Give him a fright occasionally by speeding things up but on the whole it’s best to wait till they land.’

Men were always showing off, thought Abby furiously, look at Viking sitting half-naked on the edge of the stage, making slitty eyes at every passing pretty caterer or waitress.

No-one could work out whether he was acting up because he was going to be hidden in the pit all evening or whether it was the creeping closeness of George and Juno.

Yesterday Abby had bawled him out for cracking three notes in the Tchaikovsky. Viking had proceeded to wake her up at the cottage at four o’clock in the morning to tell her he’d just finished practising, which was belied by howls of drunken laughter in the background. Then to top it, bloody Trevor, the mongrel, had chewed up her new black T-strap sandals bought to wear at the apres-gala party and Flora had hardly apologized. She didn’t know what had got into Flora either. She was so ratty. Thank God for Marcus, who was always so sweet.

Declan hadn’t arrived and, as Marcus only had his nose in a book, Abby dragged him unwillingly onto the stage to act as the narrator in Peter and the Wolf.

‘“What kind of bird are you, if you can’t fly?” said the little bird,’ read Marcus sulkily, activating a joyous flurry on the flute from Peter Plumpton.

‘“What kind of bird are you if you can’t swim?” said the duck, and dived into the pond’ and in came Simon with a ripple of notes on the oboe.

‘You’re flat, Simon,’ said Abby.

‘It’s the bloody reed,’ said Simon shrilly.

‘Very appropriate,’ giggled Cherub who was wearing a Christopher Robin sunhat. ‘Ducks live in reeds.’

As Abby moved on to another tricky bit, Marcus felt his blue-denim shirt clinging wetly to his body. He wished he could take it off but the sun would torch his fair skin in seconds.

‘No matter how hard the duck tried to run,’ read Marcus, ‘the wolf was getting nearer and nearer and nearer.’

‘And then he caught ’er,’ said an unmistakable bitchy, deep, husky, foreign voice, ‘an’ weeth one gulp, swallow ’er.’

Marcus dropped the score, for there piratically grinning up at him, ‘a laughing devil in his sneer’ stood Alexei, smothered in a great wolf-coat, despite the punishing heat. With him were Evgenia, ravishing in a green sleeveless mini dress, with a white shawl slung round her hips and George looking big and suntanned after a week outside organizing things and as proud as hell.

The orchestra put down their instruments and gave them a clap. Abby jumped down falling on their necks, somewhat ostentatiously gabbling away in Russian, introducing Julian and Dimitri who would translate if they needed him.

‘Hi Marcus, how’s Prokofiev Three going?’ shouted Evgenia, holding up a little white hand.

Marcus blushed furiously to be singled out, particularly when Dixie shouted: ‘Go for it Marcus, you might get lucky,’ and even more so when Alexei reached up, squeezed the back of his leg, and with a sly smile handed him back the score, murmuring: ‘Hi, baby boy.’

Saying he and Evgenia would rehearse when they’d warmed up, George was about to whisk them off to their dressing-rooms which had been built under the beech trees when Miles bustled up.

‘I’ve got your schedule here, Mr Nemerovsky.’ Then he added unctuously, ‘After the rehearsal we know you’d like a steak and French fries, and then a rest but at six I’ve arranged for the The Times, the Independent, the Guardian and the Telegraph to have half an hour each with you.’