Appassionata

at Noriko and had bought some black silk pyjamas which Miss Parrott had turned up for him.

The main push of the tour, however, was who was going to finally bed Abby. All interested parties had chipped in fifty pounds, the winner getting two thousand. Proof of the bonking had to be a picture of the winner and Abby in bed.

As a result Polaroid cameras sold out in Rutminster High Street. As an alternative, the event could be witnessed by telephoning Dixie who, since his success as Gwynneth in the Christmas concert, had taken to occasional cross dressing. Dixie would then barge into the room, disguised as a waitress, pretending to be delivering room service to the happy couple.

Randy had taken a book on the winner. Viking was favourite, Blue 5–1, himself 8–1 and handsome Barry the Bass 10-1, right up to Cherub 50-1, Peter Plumpton and Simon Painshaw, who were both gay, 100-1, and El Creepo, Carmine Jones and Dirty Harry 1000-1. This had all to be kept secret from the women of the orchestra, who might sneak to Abby, and particularly from Flora and Julian, who would both violently disapprove.

Most of the men would have liked to have a crack at Flora. They had originally backed off because they felt Viking had claimed droit de seigneur. But since The Creation Flora seemed to be putting out fewer signals than ever.

Flora didn’t want to go on tour one bit. She loathed the idea of leaving Trevor, whom she kept finding shuddering under the clothes in her suitcase, and although she scuttled away like an embarrassed daddy-long-legs every time George appeared in the building, she hated the thought of not seeing him for ten days either.

Blue had made no progress with Cathie Jones, but he knew she was in a bad way, because he’d seen her, grey as the fluffing willow herb, sitting down by the railway line which she always did when she was feeling suicidal. But good as his word at the gala, he had persuaded Knickers to take Cathie on tour as an extra.

At first Cathie refused because her only black dress stank under the armpits, and Carmine refused her the money for a new one. Blue got round this by buying her a crushed velvet midi from Next. He then tore out the label and persuaded a friend who worked for the Oxfam shop in Rutminster to make out a fifty-pence bill to show Carmine.

Carmine was furious, but he didn’t intend Cathie’s presence to cramp his style, he and El Creepo intended changing bedrooms several times.

Viking liked going on tour. Being blond like Juno, he was always mobbed in Latin countries. Not trusting the barbers of Seville, he had his hair cut and streaked by Giuseppe of Parker’s the week before. Dropping in at the solarium afterwards, he found the entire brass section stretched out on sun beds.

Returning in ‘disgosst’ to H.P. Hall, he was summoned to the top floor, where George, Miles, Digby, Quinton, his Third Horn, and an unhappy Julian awaited him. A very over-excited Miss Priddock was hovering in the doorway.

George then told Viking that Old Cyril must go. He was drinking far too heavily, he couldn’t centre the notes any more, and last week during Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony he had fallen off the stage and carried on playing a different tune.

‘And on Saturday Cyril passed water on stage,’ said Miles with a shudder.

‘He did not,’ snapped Viking.

‘Ay saw the steam raysing,’ chipped in Miss Priddock.

Viking looked at Cyril’s scarlet dahlias on George’s desk.

‘That steam was coming out of Blue’s ears, because Abby was wearing a silver flying suit,’ he said, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

‘He’s got to go,’ George said gently. ‘You can’t protect him for ever.’

‘Best before the tour,’ said Miles. ‘I’ll speak to him at once.’

‘We’re leaving on Monday,’ said Viking in outrage.

‘Well, he’s certainly not up to the Fourth Horn Solo in Beethoven’s Ninth — it goes on for pages,’ protested Quinton.

‘It’s really too high for Fourth Horn,’ said Julian reasonably. ‘Quinton had better play it.’

‘I’ll tell Cyril,’ said Viking icily, ‘and he can go at Christmas, give him time to adjosst.’ Then, looking round at their several dubious and disapproving faces, threatened, ‘If he goes before then, I go too.’

Viking found Cyril at home, downing his second bottle of red of the day and looking at the delphinium catalogue. They had such beautiful names, Faustus, Pericles, Othello, which was dark crimson, and Cassius, a rich dark blue. He could order some Cassius, and watch them merging into the deepening blue dusk next summer, as he sat out in the garden, listening to his old records and getting through the odd bottle before tottering off to bed.

He was delighted to see Viking, but surprised he wouldn’t have a drink. Viking did it so kindly.

‘I’m sorry, Cyril, we all adore you, but you’re not cutting it any more. You’re the best guy I’ve ever played with, I’ll still need your advice, so stay to the end of the year, and after that you must come and see us.’

Cyril would have preferred to have gone straight away, but he needed the money.

‘What will you do?’ asked Viking

‘I expect I’ll go and live with my sister.’

After Viking had left, Cyril tore up the catalogue — he couldn’t afford delphiniums now and there wouldn’t be room for them in his sister’s window-boxes.

Mrs Rawlings who lived next door could have sworn she heard pitiful sobbing later in the evening, but Cyril was such a cheery soul, it must have been the wireless.

Viking had gone out and got absolutely plastered.

On the eve of the tour, over in the Close, a disconsolate Julian, watched Luisa pack for him. He loathed touring, he couldn’t bear being parted from his dear wife for even a night.

‘Poor old Cyril,’ he sighed, ‘I’m not sure it isn’t kinder to put musicians down than to retire them. The RSO is all the family he’s got.’

Julian looked at the ‘Save the RSO’ sticker in the window — somehow he had to save his orchestra.

Appassionata. FIFTH MOVEMENT

FIFTY-SIX

Finally on a cold grey morning at the beginning of October, the orchestra were waved off by a disconsolate troop of wives, girlfriends, a few martyred-looking husbands weighed down by baby slings, Brunnhilde Buckle towering over everyone and Marcus waving the paw of a swallowing Trevor.

But just like Cosi Fan Tutte, the moment the buses were out of eyeshot, everyone swapped places particularly on Moulin Rouge and out came the drink and the fags.

‘I’ve got some freshly squeezed orange juice for you,’ said Hilary as she sat down beside Miles, who had just rolled up in an uncharacteristically smart off-white linen suit and an open-necked navy-blue shirt.

‘Doesn’t Miles look nice in stone?’ said Clare, as she collapsed beside Dixie.

‘Nicer still if he were turned to it.’

‘At least that colour won’t show up the scurf.’

‘We’re all going on a workaholiday,’ sang Flora to Viking as they sailed past Parker’s, displaying frightful autumn fashions, in burgundy, rust and snuff-brown.

Out in the country, autumn was busy daubing the woods in orange and yellow. Rooks and gulls argued over newly ploughed fields. Behind veils of little cobwebs, the hedgerows blushed with berries. An ironic cheer went up as the buses approached Heathrow and were overtaken by a sleek black limo with Abby immersed in Beethoven’s Ninth in the back. Maestros usually travelled separately, going first class on plane and train and sometimes staying with the soloists in more expensive hotels than the orchestra, which would tax the