Appassionata

And lo, what one sweet page can teach,

They read with joy, then shut the book.

Then he thanked Alexei for the most wonderful few hours of his life, past, present and future, but insisted that they must never see each other again.

Alexei’s only reply was a white feather in an airmail envelope.

The leaves of the rescued branch of philadelphus were now shrivelled, its petals fallen. Ramming the branch in the dustbin, Marcus reflected bitterly that at least he had given it the same brief chance to blossom as Alexei had given him. Freedom was clearly a destiny he was not going to reach.

Flora was horrified, but didn’t show it, when Abby confided over lunch that she and Marcus were getting married.

FIFTY-THREE

The long summer ground on, with all the inhabitants of Woodbine Cottage working flat out. As well as playing for the RSO, Flora was studying The Creation with her singing teacher because the Academy had invited her to sing the soprano part in a student production in September. She had most fun playing chamber music, as part of Julian’s quintet. It taught her to listen to herself, and she soon lost her shyness, joining in the furious arguments about tempo, and merrily added to the wrong notes which increased dramatically as the red wine flowed, until Canon Airlie who lived next door banged plaintively on the walls.

Flora grew so fond of Luisa and the Pellafacini children that she could not bear the thought of such a happy family being ousted by a putsch. Late one hot night, when she and Julian were polishing off a bottle together in the garden, she told him about George’s and Rannaldini’s merger plot. Julian’s bony face was impassive, but, as he drained his glass, his trembling hand spilled red wine dark as blood in the moonlight on his white shirt.

‘George is a great guy,’ he said slowly. ‘He’s done a helluva lot for the orchestra and he speaks his mind.’

‘About a quarter of his mind,’ snapped Flora, ‘the rest is working out dirty deals, he’s utterly Machiavellian beneath that bluff northern exterior.’

‘I somehow trust the guy,’ persisted Julian. ‘Rannaldini’s different, inflicting pain is the only other way he gets his rocks off.’

‘If he takes over, we’re both for the high jump,’ said Flora.

Julian, however, agreed with Viking that the whole truth would only panic a dreadfully demoralized orchestra,

‘Let me do some digging. I’ll have a word with Bill Thackery, he’s so discreet and now he’s on the board he may have inside information.’

Flora was also worried about Marcus, trapped at Woodbine Cottage slogging away at pieces for the Appleton, and endlessly accompanying Abby on the violin. Flora, having been invited to join the Pellafacini Quintet, had indeed been the spur to make Abby practise seriously again. The sound was amazing; there was no doubt she would be up to concert standard by the autumn.

Marcus, however, was listless and losing weight. Helen, encouraged by Rannaldini, had struck up a terrific friendship with Abby and had taken to dropping in, getting on Marcus’s nerves, constantly harping on her delight at his secret engagement.

Meanwhile George and Miles were busy finalizing details for the tour of Spain at the beginning of October. The orchestra would be playing Rachel’s Requiem with Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet overture and Rachmaninov’s Paganini Rhapsody, to pull in the punters, and on alternate nights, Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with a Spanish chorus. The highlight of the tour, however, would be Barcelona, where a sufficiently recovered Rodney would fly in to conduct his old orchestra in an eightieth-birthday concert.

Megagram were chipping in because the tour was a splendid opportunity to launch Rachel’s Requiem in Europe. But the RSO were still desperately short of cash. London orchestras charged large fees on tour, but payments to regional orchestras didn’t ever cover their costs. Additional funding therefore had to be found.

During the summer break, George had taken to dropping in on Woodbine Cottage to discuss the orchestra with Abby who automatically assumed he was after her. She hoped he would act as a spur to Marcus, who seemed increasingly detached. She also continually harped on about Flora’s antagonism.

‘Marcus and I want to have you and Juno over to dinner, but we’ll have to choose an evening when Flora’s playing chamber music, as I know Juno, you and she don’t get along.’

This was borne out by Flora vanishing like smoke whenever George rolled up. Then, on the first Saturday in August, Trevor went missing. Flora, Abby and Marcus had been watching the CCO at the proms on television. Dame Edith was due to retire in the autumn, and, as this would probably be her last prom, had camped it up like mad in white tie and tails. In the middle the cameras had panned to Gilbert and Gwynneth looking odiously enthusiastic in the stalls. This had produced so much barracking that Trevor, who only liked noise if he made it himself, bolted out of the cat door.

Absolutely demented, Flora combed the woods for twenty-four hours trying to find him.

‘I know he’s trapped down a rabbit hole or been kidnapped by vivisectionists,’ she sobbed.

As a final straw, having been stung, scratched and pricked to bits by nettles, thistles and brambles, her mobile had run out early on Sunday evening. Returning home, filthy, tearful, exhausted and hoarse from shouting, to check if anyone had rung the cottage with news, she was greeted at the back gate by Trevor. Trying to pretend he had been searching for her with equal fervour all day, he scrabbled at her so ecstatically that he pulled her boob tube down to her waist. He had in fact been languishing after one of George’s Rotweillers, who was on heat. Arriving home from Zurich, George had returned the lovelorn suitor and was now downing a large Pimm’s with Abby in the garden.

Flora, out of relief and gratitude, was forced to join them. Blushing because George must have had a good look at her breasts, she adjusted her boob tube, pulled down the green baseball cap, covering her dirty hair and prayed there were enough cuts and nettle stings on her legs to hide the fact that they had not been shaved for a fortnight.

What a ghastly contrast she must be to beautifully groomed Juno, or Abby, sleek and replete in a scarlet sarong.

‘I’ll just see if Trev’s hungry,’ Flora sidled towards the kitchen.

‘He isn’t, George and I tried to tempt him, he must be love sick,’ Abby handed Flora a glass of Pimm’s. ‘Try it, George and I made it with Kiwi fruit and mangoes.’

She couldn’t help feeling glad that Flora was being seen at such a disadvantage. Conversation was very stilted.

‘How’s the chamber music going?’ asked George.

‘Fine.’

‘Flora’s also learning The Creation,’ said Abby.

Convolvulus trumpets weaving in and out of the blackthorn hedge, blushed pink in the setting sun; George also blushed as he announced that there was a coincidence.

‘Having given the CCO a boost earlier this year, Dame Hermione feels she would like to redress the balance and award a similar favour to the RSO on her birthday on 31 August.’

‘Hermione’s a Virgo,’ gasped Abby.

‘Not for many years,’ giggled Flora.

‘I’m not having that bitch over the RSO threshold,’ snapped Abby flatly.

‘Stop being a drama queen,’ said George crushingly. ‘We need the cash. So we’re planning a huge spectacular of The Creation, and because it’s a religious work, the Bishop is allowing us