Appassionata

‘Some things are more important than gas bills,’ said Old Henry.

Abby took a long time to go to sleep. She was worried that every time she called the cottage to ask after the cats, she got her own voice on the answering-machine. Where the hell was Marcus? And although she doted on Rodney, she was depressed that the RSO were so longing to see him in Barcelona tomorrow. All the old anecdotes and catch phrases were coming out.

‘Why are we so happy, boys and girls? Because Uncle Rodney’s in charge. Where’s Dixie? When he arrives tell him he’s much too loud.’

Programmes of Rodney’s concerts before the war; photographs of him looking dashing in the Navy or with great musicians: Solomon, Kreisler, Rubinstein, Callas and Gigli had been collected and framed. Messages of love were pouring in from the living: Domingo, Pavarotti, Kiri, Alfred Brendel, Simon Rattle, Pablo Gonzales, and Menuhin. They all loved Rodney. He had brought enormous fun to music.

Forget the Bennies, the Maria Kusaks, the Bill Thackeries, and the Junos, thought Abby bitterly, Rodney in all his life never worked as hard as I do.

Restlessly she picked up a fax from George that had just been shoved under the door. Rachel’s Requiem was Number Twenty in the classical charts, people were playing it on pop channels as well, and even more amazing, Sonny Parker’s Interruption Suite for lavatory chain, coughing, etc., had been nominated for a Gramophone award. The Observer had also got wind of her come-back and done a big piece headed: OUR OWN ABBY ROSEN.

Abby felt happier and she fell into such a deep sleep, she didn’t even wake when dozing Davie fell off the balcony and sprained his ankle.

FIFTY-SEVEN

No-one was more on the ball than George Hungerford. He understood balance sheets, had an instant grasp of any financial problem, never missed a crooked picture nor an appointment. He also drove the hardest bargains. The deal had been all. His first marriage had collapsed because he was a workaholic. To survive the pain, he had worked even harder.

But now the RSO had gone like Bonnie Lesley to spread their conquests further, it was time for him to take stock of their future. Could they possibly survive even until Christmas? The latest estimate for the repairs and revamp of H.P. Hall was five million pounds. It was also essential that he devoted some time to his other companies, which, after all, brought in the dosh. Ten acres in central Manchester couldn’t run themselves.

But George, who had never had a daydream in his life, found himself hopelessly inattentive. Only this morning he had found a file he had accused Jessica of losing in the office fridge, and his boxer shorts in the pedal dustbin at home instead of in the washing-machine.

He had even started reading horoscopes and poetry and gazing at the clump of beeches in the park whose leaves were turning the same red-gold as Flora’s hair. He ought to be looking for companies to buy and properties to snap up, but his mind, like Scarlatti’s Adonis, had turned from hunting to love. Frequently he was cast into an abyss of self-doubt. How could such a bright, beautiful young lady possibly fancy an uncouth, working-class, middle-aged, North-Country lout?

All that he had to go on was that she had once called him a really sweet guy, but since then she’d scuttled away from him, and he’d been far too shy to ring her up.

He should at least have been working out how they could cut costs on the orchestra’s trip up north for the Appleton Piano Competition; instead he sent for the holiday lists, and chose the weeks his Principal Viola, El Creepo, was away to programme Harold in Italy and Elgar’s In the South overture, both of which had wonderful solos for Flora.

‘Oh, she does teach the torches to burn bright,’ murmured George.

Then Miss Priddock had barged in and announced that the soprano who was singing in The Messiah next month had decided to cry off because she was expecting triplets.

‘That’s a shame,’ said George, ‘I was just brooshing oop on my obstetrical skills. Still she might have suspended belief when she sang, “A Virgin Shall Conceive”. Oh well… Flora can take her place. We’ll have to pay her extra though.’

‘Judgin’ by the way she’s been behavin’ on tour, Ay would have thought Flora would find it even more difficult to portray a virgin,’ said Miss Priddock with a sniff.

‘That was quite uncalled for,’ snapped George. ‘Get out.’

Miss Priddock flounced off, squawking like a wet hen. George picked up The Times.

‘Venus is a morning object,’ he read in the monthly astronomy round-up of the stars.

How could the Goddess of Love be so prosaically straitjacketed? In George’s heaven, she was on twenty- four-hour duty.

Back came Miss Priddock, ten minutes later, exuding smugness and reproach in equal proportions, as she ushered in Gilbert and Gwynneth, whom George had clearly forgotten were coming. By this time, he was drinking a large Scotch, with his feet on the table, feeding strips of smoked salmon to a purring John Drummond, and watching a video of Flora singing The Creation.

Gwynneth and Gilbert promptly went into raptures over the way Rannaldini had held the orchestra together after Hermione’s disappearance — surely the mark of a great conductor.

‘The orchestra played great,’ said George icily. ‘They saved the performance because they luv Flora and their pride is sooch they wouldn’t allow themselves to produce anything less than a rare defiant performance.’

Gilbert and Gwynneth, who’d come to discuss the merger, or even dropping one orchestra altogether, which would save them even more money, were very disappointed. Rannaldini had given them to understand that George would co-operate in every way.

‘Man’s only interested in money,’ he had told them.

Listening to Gilbert droning on and Gwynneth smacking her pale fat lips over Miss Priddock’s ginger bread, George started fidgetting with his right hand drawer, which opened to show a photograph of Ruth. George gazed at her perfect face for a long time. Underneath was his passport.

Gilbert and Gwynneth were even more put out, when George announced he’d have to break up the meeting because he was off to Barcelona to give the orchestra moral support.

‘They’re playing chumpion,’ he went on. ‘Rachel’s Requiem’s in the Top Twenty in its first week — that’s because Abby’s photograph’s on the sleeve, and I want to wish Rodney a happy birthday.’

‘Oh, I wish I’d sent him a card,’ said Gwynneth looking caring, and deciding to forgive Rodney for his disparaging remarks about the Arts Council. ‘I draw them myself,’ she went on. ‘People often frame my cards.’

‘Who will hold the fort while you’re away?’ chuntered Gilbert.

‘I’ll be sending Miles back,’ said George, grabbing his briefcase and car keys. ‘After all, it’s the fort what counts.’ Good God, he was even making jokes like Flora now. ‘If it’s urgent,’ he handed a piece of paper to Miss Priddock, ‘you’ll find me on this number.’

Gilbert and Gwynneth exchanged glances. They found Miles much easier to deal with.

‘Don’t forget the board meeting on Friday,’ Miss Priddock called after him.

‘I’d no idea he was going,’ said Jessica, when she returned from the dentist — then she whistled as far as her frozen jaws would allow. ‘Golly, that’s Ruth’s number he’s left. I’d forgotten she has a house near Marbella. Perhaps they’re getting back together again. He’s been ever so distracted recently. He didn’t even shout at me when I forgot to buy his lottery tickets.’

Eyes were getting smaller with tiredness as the R.S.O. landed at Barcelona Airport, waists growing bigger. The musicians were sleepwalking, nodding off on any available sofa, armchair or bench.